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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28590723">A cold fire burns the longest</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Zoldyck_Needle/pseuds/The_Zoldyck_Needle'>The_Zoldyck_Needle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunter X Hunter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Noir, Arson, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Character Study, Crime Scenes, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Detective Noir, Drug Dealing, Dubious Morality, Illumi's POV, Implied/Referenced Incest, Mental Cases, Minor Dexter &amp; John Wick influences, Multi, Multiple Homicide Investigation, Plot comes first, Sexual Violence, Sin City Inspired, Yorskhin is a bad place, sex without love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:34:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>95,820</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28590723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Zoldyck_Needle/pseuds/The_Zoldyck_Needle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Infamous Needle arrested!" - Pariston Hill, Chief of Yorkshin Police, informed this afternoon.</p><p>Even a professional assassin can have a bad run. Illumi gets arrested. Yet, to his great surprise, the same man who sent him to jail would soon ask his assistance in solving a mass murder case.</p><p>This is Yorkshin Noir  - the accursed city, crawling with crime and depravation. The joy here is scarce, and love is twisted. There is not a person who wouldn't  hold a dirty secret. Illumi will face Yorkshin madmen, while aiding detective Kurapika in serving justice for a promise of amnesty or making his blocked bail-out finally possible.  </p><p>Check the end notes for table of contents and quick navigation &amp; read the tags.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck, Illumi Zoldyck/Killua Zoldyck, Illumi Zoldyck/Leorio Paladiknight, Kurapika/Illumi Zoldyck, Palm Siberia/Illumi Zoldyck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Among Rats</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Autumn rain. Whom is the sky weeping for? The people I killed or the ones I will dispose of? The people who pay me for it? Not for me, huh? I'm irredeemable.   </p><p>My whole life is like this autumn rainy day – slow and silent, yet violent in its persistence. Leaking wet, droplet by droplet. Cold and chill at every turn. The background grey and monotone. Heavy leaden clouds to crown it all. Only the rain would be crimson red, and the puddles would soon form flowing rivers of blood. The blood. I shed so much of it; the river might be too modest. When you are as methodical as I am, time slows its pace. It may seem death comes fast and sudden. Not from where I stand. Preparations make it appear almost sluggish. Death is an outcome of a sustained process.   </p><p>The weather is ugly, and so is Yorkshin, but I don't mind. I was never the one to complain. I strolled on an empty pavement. My trench coat's collar up, offering little to no protection against the wind. Wind that kept trying to pry the umbrella off my freezing hands. I looked up. It was getting darker. Street lamps blinked, warming up to illuminate the city for the upcoming night. Still about fifteen minutes' walk to the apartment. Before I get there, the night will set in for good.  </p><p>I should be close by now, but I found myself strolling for longer. So much had happened. Never believed my old life was over when they caught me. Deep in I knew it was only a phase. My intuition rarely misleads me. </p><p>The memories were fresh. I was moving in circles, questioning myself, trying to put my finger on the reasons. Why I bothered? Was it anger? Definitely not. Am I thorough, making sure it <em>never</em> occurs again? Possible. How about fear? Hadn't I allowed it to happen in the first place? No, that's not it, either. Usually, I would not let myself succumb to such doubts, but he was a different breed of troublemaker. Worst of all, that bastard threatened the only person I loved. Who would stop him from trying it again? Who, if not me? So, yeah – I was being thorough.  </p><p>He did something to me too. I had to put an end to this. Or at least learn how it works. Can't stop thinking about it even on this rainy day. By now, all of what had happened should become distant and vague, insignificant. Like the fingers of the steam creeping out of sewer ducts onto the moist glittering streets. Why wasn't <em>it</em> retracting?  </p><p>These few soaked individuals who passed me by; they didn't know who they met, even though they heard about me. The whole Yorkshin trembled when the newspapers screamed my nick-name in bold, capital letters. My identity is not a secret, yet I always hesitate before letting it out. People eyeball me as if they saw a ghost. They hold their breath and tense. They seem to want to run, but feel awkward at the urge. Who in their sound mind escapes from a stranger who may be fooling around at their expense?  </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>For a long time Yorkshin knew me as the Needle. Don't laugh. I had little control over what pseudonym the journalists would bestow upon me. I didn't care. I learned not to care for anything but my assignments. The obvious thing about my kills was, the bodies were always found with needles stuck in them. My way of announcing to my clients that the contract was honoured. My real name though is Illumi from the Zoldyck family. In the criminal underground this name strikes even more fear than the one the general public knew me by.</p><p>Although, they consider us Mafia, we are nothing like it. Whereas the other Mafioso tend to storm the streets during daytime, shooting bullets left and right, the Zoldycks are discreet about their business. Heists are not our strongest suit. No tumultuous bangs, no explosions heard in the nearby cities. We operate from shadows and cover our tracks. The very reason why the journalists knew me as the Needle, and not Illumi Zoldyck. We specialize in assassination, extortion, blackmail, theft (rarely). We also place much consideration in our clients' wishes. They want someone's skin painted blue and hanged on the highest mast in Yorkshin? – no problem. They want them to die fast and painless? – fine. They want them mutilated but alive? – be my guest. When the payment is agreed upon, the Zoldycks receive the order and deliver it expertly. They know us where it matters, to secure constant flow of assignments. There are so many of them, on occasion even my great grandpa has to cancel his retirement to take some of it off our hands. One could say we are often overworked despite our services not coming in cheap.  </p><p>Needless to say, I've been into the assassination business for my entire life. I lost count of my kills ages ago. I've never enjoyed murder, but I never regretted it either. Some get to be doctors, some get to be teachers, and some get to be killers. This is the outcome of being born into a rich Mafia clan with a long tradition in earning blood-money, and a lot of it. I was to become a criminal like my father. When it happened, I was to help rise my brothers to become criminals – like me. I never knew a different lifestyle. Should I not mess up that one time, I wouldn't stray away from the path that my folks laid before me.</p><p>Killing is not as simple as it sounds. It can be as nuanced for a specialist as making furniture is for an experienced carpenter. You invest yours everything into the craft, and you can see the difference between methods. You can taste the details, and decide what you like about it the most, and what doesn't suit your style. This is how handiwork receives soul, becomes one of its kind. As for me – I liked when things were going according to plan. I always went carefully about every detail. You could call me a control-freak, perfectionist – and you'd be right. I hated messy jobs so much, I did whatever it took to make a clean kill. Always.  </p><p>Ah, how it sucks for the likes of me. Perfection doesn't exist in nature, and if you try to be spotless, you are asking for a kick in the butt. With an attitude like this even a seasoned specialist in murder will have a bad run. Mine started when lieutenant Mizaistom got onto my case. It was a matter of time I would get caught red-handed.  </p><p>They think I'm an emotionless man, and they are correct for the most part. However, there is one thing I love, and it's my family. When I got cuffed, I couldn't care less what will happen to me, as long as my loved ones were safe. And at that time to keep them from the harm's way, was for me to keep my mouth shut. Simple as that. Although my stubborn silence landed me behind bars for about half a year, this solitary sentiment of mine kept bringing my captor back to me. He tried to make me tell him something of value about the Zoldycks, like our hideouts. His mission – a miserable failure, no matter how hard he tried. Must have realized any attempt of torturing this knowledge out of me was futile. Not that he would go this far. He was too honourable to play dirty, and to play dirty with a criminal of my calibre you need a great deal of malice in you. A strong stomach as well, I assume. I'm not easy to break. So, Mizaistom jailed me for life, thinking the neighbourhood would soften me up. Naïve. My reputation preceded me, inmates respected and feared my name. It didn't work as the lieutenant hoped. Almost felt for him. His only hope was, I will finally spill the beans, craving to see my relatives, while they could not visit me… I'm not the one to show emotions, but during these scarce visits from Mizaistom, I nearly laughed him in the face. I never did though.  </p><p>Sometimes I marvelled. Was he coming by to hear me talk? Even if I didn't talk much on principle? He must have realized I wasn't letting the cat out of the bag any time soon. People liked my voice, though. Mizaistom never struck me as a man who'd pay attention to such traits. Somebody else? He – or someone acquainted with him – also liked my hair. It wasn't cut short as it should be when I got jailed. I never asked why. It would mean a trade, and I was not willing to trade any information about the Zoldycks' whatsoever. Sure as hell not for something as insignificant as to know who ordered my long feathers to remain on me.  </p><p>Months of incarceration taught me more about Yorkshin jail. Nothing in this city worked as intended. Corruption stained everything, and this place was no different. For instance, one of the prison screws turned out to belong to the bunch of highly specialized thieves. They called themselves the Spiders or the Phantom Troupe. Chrollo liked to have his agents in places of interest – places like this, where one of his crooks could end up. When I first noticed short, dreary looking Feitan, I pretended I never knew him. He was strolling the ward in a guard's outfit as if he belonged there, waving his baton like he ached to smash someone's face with it. Only it was not a baton, it was an umbrella with a little sharp surprise hidden inside. On occasion, he would greet me with a barely noticeable nod. This is how my family kept tabs on me. Chrollo was a master thief, but for us, he was also a high-paying client. He would never pass up an opportunity to take some of the money spent on our services back. Feitan was doing exactly that. Feeding my parents info about how their eldest son fared behind bars.  </p><p>That sadistic little bastard. Apart from keeping an eye on me, he often gave vent to his violent urges. Thugs who thought his short size was a good reason to make fun of him were in for a shock. From time to time someone would find an inmate brutalized to death in some secluded area of the prison. If I was a betting man, I'd win a fortune on betting who the culprit was. Word flew fast around these parts, and soon the short keeper earned himself a grim reputation. One time I saw bloodstains on his umbrella-pretending-to-be-baton. Not that he cared to hide them. He liked sending signals this indirect way. Soon inmates started to avoid his gaze. Funny that – the look on Feitan's face could be described as a compassionate one. Knowing him a bit, I truly believed he felt for the poor sods who dared to cross him. This guy knew how to make the most of the time he was on the Spider duty.</p><p>By now, it should be clear Yorkshin was a dirty hole, crawling with the likes of me and Feitan. Still not convinced? Then look no further than the chief of the Yorkshin Police. A law-abiding citizen? Shining example of civic virtues? The rat king himself – Pariston Hill. The leader of the law enforcement machinery had a black heart. Mizaistom seemed to suspect that. Others too, but all the good guys were busy, stopping the daily leakage of crime that suffocated the city’s veins. The chief was left to his own devices. And morbid activities they were. This schemer was always beaming, smiling like he was born with a wide grin on his smug face. Charming and warm blonde angel you wanted to snuggle while he sang you a lullaby and tucked you in. Such a display of kindness, even if fake, got most of the public unaware of his true nature. They would sooner beat you to death with a stick, than believe him to be a monster. This is how starved the Yorkshin people were for a glimpse of humanity in the other. But I saw right through him. It wasn't hard, since he hired me twice. Me, and no other Zoldyck.  </p><p>My mother, the instant she noticed one of her boys getting singled out by a client, she set out to work on his or her profile. She hoped we'll get more money out of our services if we knew our clients better. The two times Pariston relied on us to take someone out of the picture, he requested Illumi specifically. She told me it could have been the way I kill – the needles. So, I made sure the two targets Pariston wanted dead ended up punctured with them like a hedgehog with spikes. Or maybe – my mum mused – he saw me once or twice, and was getting off, imagining how I do his bidding. After all, I wasn't ugly, and Yorkshin was a hellish pit filled to the brim with lewd nut jobs. For my parents it was no big deal; it was rather something to utilize to generate more income. Pariston was compensating generously. It was also a positive sign that the police chief was on our side. By which I mean, by hiring us (twice) Hill handed us some blackmail material on himself. Chief didn't seem to care, though. So trusting he was in our discreet methods of operations. He wasn't mistaken in that assumption. He had chosen the best family to do his dirty work.</p><p>Still, my mother was wrong. It was not the pins, nor was it him imagining me at work… It must have been the very thing still growing on my head, despite my detention. I didn't suspect him straight off. Only before my release it became obvious who it was that allowed my jet-black hair to rot in jail intact with me.  </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It started with Feitan, banging on the bars of my solitary cell with his fear-inducing baton.  </p><p>"Wakey, wakey, sunshine!" he called to the tumult of the hand-made racket.  </p><p>I lifted my head from the pillow and looked him questioningly in the narrowed eyes.  </p><p>"You are going to the isolation room."  </p><p>"What for?"  </p><p>Despite many corpses I left in my wake, I was a pretty upstanding inmate. People were moving out of my way, few bothered me, I didn't look for spats with the turnkeys. I had no reasons to act violent. Fine, I might have got rid of three scum, doing my time, but they were asking for it. They tailed me day and night, offered gifts of no value, and when nothing would faze me, threats would begin. For the most part though they hoped I'd drop the soap. Does it look like I'm clumsy? One choked to death on a toilet spring. Nobody suspected me, of course. The other two went on Feitan's account… since he was so eager to join in. Thank goodness for <em>small</em> favours.  </p><p>"I'm only passing news on, sweetheart,” Feitan's voice ringed boredom. “Now, move your ass and follow me."  </p><p>Whispers arose from nearby cells. People thought he was about to baton me to death in some dark nook. It was never a good sign if Feitan escorted you, anywhere.  </p><p>Don't fear for me, Cinderellas. The Zoldycks and the Spiders got along well. There was a mutual respect between us. I remember father telling me not to mess with them, so dangerous the Phantom Troupe were. That was before both sides realized cooperation is more fruitful. We never made it a secret, that in case we are hired to take a Spider down, it will be carried out despite the truce. Luckily Chrollo knew how to keep a low profile. If the Troupe robbed or murdered people, nobody realized it was the Troupe. In the result no one could hire a hit-man to go after them. How do you chase after ghosts? This occurred only once, as far as I am aware, and it was my father who took the Spider down. He did it, but barely made it alive. Chrollo held no grudges, though. The confrontation must have been a fair game. The most skilled one won – there was no reason to seek revenge.  </p><p>I followed my short assist, face as cool as a cucumber. We stopped at the entrance to the isolation cell. There was a simple white chair in front of it. On it – a straitjacket. I raised my brows.  </p><p>“Are they moving me to a loony bin?”  </p><p>Feitan looked around, seemingly puzzled. “I thought there's only one Yorkshin, and you're already in it.”  </p><p>Touché.  </p><p>Feitan motioned for me to get dressed in the bug house garments. When I did, he tied the long sleeves firmly behind my back. Only then did he open the isolation room and waved his folded umbrella, ushering me in.  </p><p>“You'll have a visitor soon. He insisted you wear this on your first date.”</p><p>“Care to tell me who it is?”  </p><p>“No.”</p><p>No point dwelling on the subject, since I'd learn on my own anyway. Without another word, I entered the dark space. It got pitch black when Feitan locked the door. Never been here before. It was empty, not very spacious, the walls – soft, old, smelly leather. Bet many fingernails scratched the surface when the darkness and deafening silence became overbearing. I couldn't see it, but I could sense it. The stench of sweat and fear was filling the air. Something about this place, almost material, always escaping the eye. Like a wraith haunting an old house. Me? I liked it. I trailed to the wall opposite the entrance and waited.  </p><p>The room was soundproof. I only noticed my guest arrived when he was already opening the door. I'm not sure what blinded me first, the portable lamp he was carrying or the white of his teeth. He noticed me – a grey cocoon, leaning against the wall – and smiled wider. Next, he closed the door and put the lamp on the floor with such care as if it were made of cracked glass. He looked around. As if there was anything to explore but echoes of many tormented minds.  </p><p>I watched him approach, my eyes already used to the sickly green light of the lamp.  </p><p>“Illumi!” Pariston emitted a joyful yell. It sounded too loud in this limited space. Then he extended his arms. He didn't come here to hug me, did he? My condition didn't allow to return the affection. Was he afraid I'd hug him back if not for restraints? And snap his neck while at it? “It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”  </p><p>I tend to deliver replies with delay. It unties tongues, and Pariston was a talkative type.  </p><p>“Don't you wonder why I'm here?” he babbled on. “Tomorrow is your lucky day. You are getting out of here, isn't that great to hear?”  </p><p>“I assume it's not thanks to my good behaviour,” I remarked to be saying anything.  </p><p>“It's more complicated than that. Lieutenant Mizaistom will fill you in. Let me just say, he asked me to make it possible for you to assist his men in solving a murder case. Multiple homicide.”</p><p>Now, that was something I didn't expect. To rely on a criminal to catch another criminal? There was some logic to that. It screamed desperation too.</p><p>“If you succeed, I may even convince the court to grant you amnesty.” Hill advanced, step by step. His brown eyes sparkling with a bottomless joy. “I'm pretty sure the moment it happens, you'll run back to your folks. In which case will you accept my next assignment?”  </p><p>“If you pay,” I replied the obvious.  </p><p>Just when I thought he reached his limits, he grinned even wider. Will his face ever fall apart? I thought for a moment, then gave it a shot:</p><p>“What would you do, if I cut my hair? Would you still insist on <em>me </em>doing your dirty work?”  </p><p>“Of course.”  </p><p>It wasn't the hair then. What was it?  </p><p>“It's the eyes. If it weren't for your skill and connections, I'd have them gouged out a long time ago. I'd sunk one in amber to keep, and made a lollipop from the other one to suck on it during long autumn evenings.” He lowered his voice, “Sometimes, I envy those whom I ordered you to dispose of, for seeing these irises before they breathed their last.”</p><p>Ah. One mystery solved. I may be good at solving mysteries.  </p><p>“I like pretty things like you.” I could feel Pariston's warm hand brush my cheek. “That's why I saved your silky strands. They frame your features nice. Don't you think, you owe me something for my kindness?”  </p><p>“I didn't ask for favours.” Seeing what it was about, I played along. When you open yourself a little, you may learn more than you need to get someone buried. Providing, such necessity arises. In my line of work information is gold. “Free kill is out of question.”  </p><p>Pariston giggled. This wide grin never vanishing, only getting bigger and whiter. Chief was holding a lot of secrets, but which one of them was the dirtiest? With how much he liked to expose his teeth, I wondered if the rumours heard in the underground were true. Nothing solid, but accusations like this rarely are born out of thin air. No ordinary person dreamed of gouging another's eyes to suck on them like candy, either. Hill seemed as deranged as the whole of Yorkshin. And maybe as sick as the rumour had it.  </p><p>His other hand found its way behind my neck, as he pressed his forehead against mine and stared me in the eyes.  </p><p>“I'm letting you out of my sight tomorrow. I came to say farewell and good luck. And to collect my little something for treating you better than the other prisoners.”  </p><p>I inclined my head a bit. It was enough small-talk for me already. The rat king was not telling me more about Mizaistom's recent worry. This will have to wait for the next day.</p><p>“Are you doing it of your own volition? My family doesn't play any part in it?” </p><p>“I know they have means of checking on you inside the prison. But no, this one is entirely on me. I have a job for you after this whole mess is taken care of. So…”</p><p>He bit on my ear, and not in a way a lover would. They taught me to treat my body like a utility. It was impossible to shame me. If he aimed to intimidate me, he was in for a let-down. Or he hoped I'll sink my teeth in him? Was I not the vicious Needle? Some individuals are odd like that. They'd pay serious money to get mopped by someone with the right reputation. And then, there was this rumour. My suspicions as to his secret choice of meals returned at lightning speed. If Pariston had… abnormal appetites, such people concentrated on the soft flesh. The tongue or earlobes. So, I waited and analysed.  </p><p>He nibbled on my earlobe for quite some time all right. When he got bored, he moved to my throat. I could feel his teeth grazing the skin, trying to bite on the thin layer that kept escaping him. He gave up, placed two fingers on the sides of my jaw and pressed to force it open. I would do it for him on my own if he'd asked… He sucked the air out of my lungs to get the full length of my own tongue into his mouth. Chief munched on it as if he intended to swallow it. The only thing stopping him was – it was still attached to me. If I were unsure then, I was pretty convinced by now – not every ghastly rumour is a lie. When the tension on my tongue lessened, I retrieved it lazily. He placed a soft kiss on my lip, as if he realized that by nearly gorging on the piece of me, he let slip too much. Making up for it by being tender will simply not do, chief. Before he finished, he bit me hard enough to draw a trickle of blood. He must have realized the damage was done.</p><p>“Sweet for a passionless killer” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  </p><p>“Anticipated more spice? Should have fed me chilli tacos.”  </p><p>“Don't get me wrong, sweet is fine. Nobody knows it, but I'm <em>devouring</em> mega-packs of gummy bears and marshmallow. I'm hiding them behind Netero's picture in my office.”  </p><p>You are letting too much information out, chief – I thought to myself. I was questioning if marshmallow was all I'd find behind that portrait. Or was it a petty attempt to lure me in? Luckily, I am not a thief nor am I greedy. I wasn't all that curious, either.  </p><p>“Hmm…” he hummed, seemingly recalling some memories. I think I know what it was. I offered him a little, telling smile. I rarely smile, so when I do, people tend to pay attention. When Hill's gaze focused back on me, I let a bold question out:  </p><p>“So, when was the last time you <em>ate</em>, chief?”  </p><p>He went silent. The temperature between us dropped. The brown eyes glared at me – his true beastly self reflecting behind them. I can recognize the fellow monster when I see one. Two heartbeats later the room ringed with his cheerful laughter. It was fake and everywhere, just like the man himself.  </p><p>“What gave me away?” he asked light-heartedly, wiping a tear out of his eye.  </p><p>“I am a professional,” I said. “As you well know.”  </p><p>“I guess, it wouldn't stay hidden for long anyway. Not from you. I want to be on your father's good side.”  </p><p>“He wouldn't appreciate Zoldyck on your dish. Neither would I.” I gave him my most threatening, blank stare, cold and lifeless, just like his body would be if he dared. “If I learn you tried this with any of my brothers, I'll kill you.”</p><p>“Come now, you're getting carried away.” He evaded my point. Slick of him. Putting me in a straitjacket was a good call on his part. Nobody messes with my family. They do, they die. For free. “If I could, I'd release you right now, so that you could find me someone.”  </p><p>“Find you someone?”  </p><p>“I never hated anyone; would you believe that?”   </p><p>I said nothing, since this confession made no sense to me.  </p><p>“Until I met him.” Hill looked up at the dimly lit ceiling. “Now I wonder how the hate <em>tastes</em> like. But he keeps disappearing who knows where. He's such a vagabond. Luckily, I am a patient man. I can wait for you to be available again. This will pay well, of course.”  </p><p>“And you run the police.” I shook my head. No wonder Yorkshin is a hell-hole. Its inhabitants' safety has been overseen by the devil himself. I'm not complaining, only stating the facts.   </p><p>I'd like to say, it was beyond my understanding, why governor Netero kept this man as a head of the law enforcement for this long. Yet, I couldn't. In Yorkshin everybody had a secret that was rotting their humanity away. The higher you were, the uglier the mystery about you. And Netero was at the very top. He and his grotesque right hand, Beans. Beans – that green bastard, damaged in some accident that should have killed him, but didn't. As a result, he lost all his hair, and his skin changed tone to match his name.  </p><p>“I'd love to chat some more, but I have work to do.” Pariston clapped me friendly on the back. And beamed. Because, why not?  </p><p>Soon after he left, a guard appeared to release me from my safety bag, and escorted me back to my cell. Looks like Feitan was busy daring those who'd like to call him 'shorty'. The unfamiliar jailer was eyeballing me, puzzled, all the way. Apparently, I was presumed deceased from Feitan's miracle-weapon.   </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Hill's visit got my mind occupied, but it wasn't the last surprise for the day. A Few hours after my chit-chat in the isolation room, another screw showed up.  </p><p>“Someone wants to talk to you.” He ordered me to step away from the bars and extend my arms. When I did, he reached inside to cuff me. Only then did he open the cell.  </p><p>We marched through the corridors, descending to the ground level, and into the small room designed for visits from the outside world. My heart jumped for joy. I collected myself before it showed, but believe me, if I ever were close to shed a tear, it was then.  </p><p>It was there that I also met my two guardian angels that were to be breathing down my neck for the days to come. Officers Knuckle Bine and Shoot McMahon.  </p><p>“Look who's decided to show his ugly face,” the one called Knuckle snarled. A blatant lie in that phrase. “Isn't that mister Needle? PRICKly, pale and sickly.”   </p><p>His partner simpered, a very fake excuse for a smile. In that we both agreed. Knuckle's attempts at being an ass were weak and tired.   </p><p>What an odd pair they were.   </p><p>The loud-mouth stood tall and bulky. His hair-style was most peculiar, cut short and twisted on the top. He had narrow eyes, shooting hostile glances, pissed off face and brows that always frowned. Knuckle wore a thick light-grey woollen coat over his police uniform. A white scarf was loosely wrapped around his strong neck. He filled his every inner and outer pocket with something rustling. I could see a yellow edge of a snack-pack perking out of his trousers' pocket. Dog food?   </p><p>His partner on the other hand resembled an isle of concerned tranquillity. Shoot was as tall if not taller and of skinnier build. A thin ponytail was erupting from the side of his head. No fedoras for those two with how they went about their hair. Round eyes devoid of eyebrows were dashing side to side. The man always on his toes, afraid of his own shadow, his expression forever worried. No wonder, with a partner like that. There was another curious thing about him. He was hiding his left arm behind his coat, the left sleeve of it dangling empty to the side. I cocked my head. Why would he hide his hand?   </p><p>For now, I ignored the both of them. Didn't suspect I'll be seeing them again, way too often for my liking. I entered the visiting room.  </p><p>It was Gotoh, one of the Zoldycks' most trusted butlers. Dressed in a neat black suit, he corrected his glasses and greeted me with a bow.  </p><p>“I hope you are in good health, master Illumi.”   </p><p>“Never felt better.”  </p><p>From his reserved tone and behaviour, I presumed this won't be a long visit. Gotoh fished out a white envelope and pushed it through a slit in a plastic, translucent window.   </p><p>“I came to give you this, master Illumi.”   </p><p>“Thank you.”   </p><p>That was all. The moment my fingertips touched the envelope Gotoh stood up, bowed, and exited the room. I glanced at the message. Fast. If my father had instructions for me already, he must have been pretty attentive towards how I was faring.  </p><p>My first mistake was to leave the visiting room before reading the message.   </p><p>“I'll be reading it first, thank you very much.” Officer Knuckle pried the letter off my hands. I let him, unfazed.  </p><p>He scrutinized it as if it was a homemade bomb rather than a piece of paper. He tore open the envelope, looking me in the eye, unfolded the letter and squinted. Shoot appeared worried as always, silent, one-armed.   </p><p>“Motherfucker.” Knuckle furrowed his thick brows. He locked his teeth on an invisible rock that made the tendons of his jaw visible and twitching under the skin.   </p><p>I knew what kind of mental wall he hit. A code my family used, designed for situations like this. Only the Zoldycks and few of our most trusted butlers were able to decipher it.   </p><p>“You think you're smart, huh?” Knuckle leaned towards me, pointing his index at my chest “I'm watching you, <em>punk.</em>” He forced the letter back into my hand, the paper scrunched. Then he spat on the floor. If he aimed for my shoes he missed. Was this cop mad now? Hard to tell, since he looked like he had a bad day every day.  </p><p>“Tomorrow the boss will have a word with you,” Shoot opened his mouth for the first time. He sounded how he looked – anxious. “Behave, and we will all be getting along.”   </p><p>“Can you repeat this to your partner? He seems to have a bad attitude.”   </p><p>“Come on, Shoot.” Knuckle shouted, already strolling away, not bothering to look back at us. “Leave this trash be. <em>For now.</em>”   </p><p>And so, our ways parted. <em> For now. </em>My keeper escorted me back to the cell. Before we got there, I managed to read the letter four times. When I sat on my bed, I already had it memorized, each word and punctuation mark.  </p><p>It was instructions from my father all right. He ordered me to assist Mizaistom and his people to the best of my capabilities. To keep it safe and do whatever they'll ask of me. In other words: to be a good boy. I was to treat this as another assignment. My reward? An amnesty or a bail-out. A certain prosecutor with good ties blocked the latter option – Biscuit Krueger. Hated me with passion, that one. If not for her, Silva would bail me out in no time. My family didn't lack funds. But she did everything in her power to keep me locked. She stopped every legal move my father could take. The only way left was a forceful extraction. Why take me so personally, Ms. Bisky? Have I killed your favourite writer or Chippendale?</p><p>The good news was, if I helped Mizaistom, I'd deserve a prize. After accomplishing the mission, I was to go back straight home. That were my father's exact words. It meant a bail-out, amnesty or breaking me out of here by force. No reason to disbelieve this promise. The last option told me my family was already getting ready for it. Which meant I'd get out, no matter what the outcome of the investigation would be.   </p><p>I felt a little light-headed. Torn between stomach churning homesickness and curiosity. What was it that forced Mizaistom to seek my… expertise? Who was this other killer? What did he do? How bad was it? Who made the police so helpless, they decided to rely on another killer's instincts to get him? Many questions raced through my head; many worries rose from graves. My last spat with Kill, for instance. That one went sideways bad. It ate at me every day of my incarceration. </p><p>It seemed, the best thing to do was to sleep it off. But I couldn't fall asleep   </p><p>Oh, how I missed home. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. In the dark all cats are grey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everyone has a talent, only not everyone is aware of it. Sometimes it's for the better. Especially if your unique skill is entirely useless.  </p><p>We had a most peculiar screw on the ward. He had a shift three times a week. Old Joe, we called him. His appearance suited a seasoned sailor more than a turnkey. Bulky posture, thick grey beard, reddened plump cheeks. Thin lines of veins were spreading on his face like a terminal disease. His nose always leaked. He tended to wipe it on his uniform's sleeve to the loud and loathful sound of a wet slurp. A horrible smoker’s cough as well. You could almost see the stripes of phlegm tearing off his lungs when he expectorated.  </p><p>Other than that, Old Joe could sense inmates beating the meat with a radar's precision. I don't know how he was doing that. Keen ears? Vibrations of some kind? Some chemistry in the air the change of which told him somebody was getting too excited? This was Joe's skill. If you so much as put your hand in your pants with the intent, he was already on the move to find who you were.</p><p>It usually began with him entering the ward with a bang. "Who the fey eesh fappin'?" he would bellow, his skewed speech betraying low town upbringing. Then Old Joe would begin the search. The drunken sailor didn't stop until he found the guilty party. Unless the culprit refrained from further self-abuse when the first alarm sounded. Joe was a fair guy in this regard. He wasn't mean-spirited either. I think it was a game to him. He did give you some time to hide the snake back in the sack. Nevertheless, if you were feeling bold, if you kept cruising for an oozing, he would find you, and fast. Such a ruffian was up for a full week of cleaning toilets or helping cooks in the kitchen. One wonders whom Old Joe wanted to punish - the nasty inmate or the cooks? </p><p>My last night in Yorkshin jail happened to meet Old Joe's shift. It was not even past midnight when I heard him grunt his signature words of admonition. Looked like I wasn't the only one who felt restless. The reasonable part of me knew I should rest to make a good impression tomorrow. But I couldn't keep my thoughts from racing through my head. No particular rhyme nor pattern to them at first. Soon, the most biting dilemma surfaced, overshadowing all the rest.  </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>I was already on the last curve to honour my contract. Few details to check; few little things to get it all buttoned up. Those damned details. If I weren't so obsessive about them, Mizaistom wouldn't be so lucky. That was one reason I ended up caged, but not the only one. I delivered a messy job because of the very same thing that gnawed on me in my cell, keeping me awake. Kill's rebellious outburst. He revolted against family's wishes. Part of me still couldn't believe it.</p><p>About a week before fate served me a kick in the teeth, we started having continuous spats, me and Killua. During one of his trainings outside home grounds Kill met a boy whom he considered a friend.  </p><p>“This line of work rules friendship out,” I reasoned. “Forget it. If not for your sake than for the ones you tell yourself you care for. Friend is a weakness on you. You have no need for it.”</p><p>“Get off my back! I'll do what I want,” Kill snarled, his tiny fists clenched, the silvery hair more messy than usual. No wonder, taking into consideration all the bad tension between us. I knew from the way he stood he was suppressing the urge to kick the ground. This was what he did when he was younger, and wasn't given what he wished for.</p><p>“This family has enemies, Kill.” </p><p>“Isn't that why Mike never goes hungry?”</p><p>“Very funny.” I turned to him; my attention now focused on the cute ill-tempered boy. “You are brushing away my arguments about your companion's safety so easily. It's indicative enough you have no clue what friendship is.” </p><p>“Like hell I don't!” </p><p>“Oh? Enlighten me then.” </p><p>“A friend is someone you like, and who likes you back, and you spend time together, doing... fun stuff!”</p><p>“This is what family is for.” I placed my palm on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away. Fractious, furious. Stubborn. </p><p>“Save me that bullshit. It's not the same.” </p><p>“Mind your language, Kill,” I rebuked on impulse, and he stuck his tongue at me on impulse of his own. If it were somebody else, I'd slap them across the face. But not Kill. His hissy fits only made me love him even more, somehow. “This boy you tell yourself you care for…” </p><p>“He has a name, you big screwball. It's Gon!” he barked, crossed-armed, his chest puffed and heaving. </p><p>“He.” I smiled a patient smile. “You think you care for him?” </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>“What will you do if someone learns about your ties to him? You are not just some boy, Kill. You are Zoldyck. This mere fact puts anybody you get close to in danger. Have you thought about <em>this</em> for a second? What will you do, if he gets kidnapped or beaten to a pulp? What if someone cuts him up, blinds him, feeds him poison, only to spite you, or lure you into a trap? Someone like him is a perfect target to exact revenge against you.”</p><p>This and many other arguments to convince a boy who was quickly reaching the out-of-hand age. Little brother would not listen. He would batter at his chamber's door and demand he be let out to play with his colleague. He would scream and cry until his throat went sore. We had these inflammatory talks every day I stayed home, making ready for the hit. He was <em> so </em> convinced he was able to protect his pal, trusted so much in his abilities, it drove me round the bend. There was a reason he was still in training. There was a reason we planned this training for years to come. Why couldn't he see that? Hardshell little brother of mine.</p><p>“Kill, you are getting on my nerves,” I said on that fatal day before I set out to take down what would become my last mark for the next six months. What I saw in Killua's blue eyes made me unhappy: the burning defiance. “After my current assignment, let's race to find this Gon. I won't even take my pin-gun. Will go bare-handed. Then we shall see how good you are at lifesaving.” I caught his trembling chin between my fingers, lowering my voice to a soft whisper. “I know the answer: you're not good at it at all. Your calling is <em>taking</em> life not saving it. Still, let's entertain this idea. What do you say? You think you are ready to take on me?”</p><p>The realization hit. He even forgot his cocky tongue, angry tears welling up those eyes. I was hell-bent on putting my words into practice. One needs to know one's limits, let alone one's place, and Kill's destiny was to take over the family business.</p><p>It appeared a good plan at first. Too bad it turned out to be miscalculation on my part. Kill surprised us all and… fled home. He run away the very day I offered to educate him on the consequences of growing attachments to random people. Would you believe that? To add insult to injury, it was not a bad move to take. Kill acted exactly how I taught him to in similar circumstances. Don't know how to handle a situation? Too hard an opponent? Odds shifted, suspect a failure? There is no shame in turning tail. 'Pack your friend and make yourself scarce' was the only way out his overconfidence offered. He took my words to heart and fled. Tch! </p><p>It got me pretty rattled; I couldn't focus on the job. The target went down, but so had I together with it. Got thrown into jail before I could make things right. Not only that – I had zero information about my family matters. Was dying to know how the ordeal with Kill unfolded. Was he returned home? Was he still running wild with that boy? Trusted my parents to sort things out. However, it was me who instigated this explosion of recklessness, and it should be me who'd fix it. I should have handled this whole friendship drama way better. Each day Kill went without his training worked against him. Unbearable thoughts. There was not much I could do, though. Not from behind bars. And this impotence was about to end. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The door somewhere opened and closed with a bang. “Which one of yee lot eesh fappin'?” the creaking voice disturbed the night. Old Joe was at it again.</p><p>His 'which' sounded more like 'witch' with an audible 'ee' and a soft 'tch'. Joe was talking like that with a smoke in his mouth. Guess it got imprinted in his incurable smoker's mind that he should always speak like this – a butt in mouth or not. </p><p>The noise came from afar, but the rushed steps advanced quick. The cock liberator on the run. It didn't take him long to manifest in front of my solitary cell. I heard the flap covering the bean slot move, and the next thing I saw was Joe's reddened, drunkard's eyes gawking at me. He inspected me with scrutiny all the way down to my prison pants, hiding my hand stroking lightly inside. </p><p>“O-sheet,” he grumbled. “Eesh it yee, pinboyo?” </p><p>“Is there a problem, warden?” I asked, my voice as tranquil as my mind wasn't. There was nothing he could do to me. By tomorrow I'll be only a distant memory to him and everybody else here. A wet dream for some. </p><p>“Yee keep eet quiet, boyo. Don't wanna wake yer mayteesh up.” He spat on the floor, but not to express distaste. It was a habit acquired through years of smoking. “Ash yee were.” And he hobbled away. </p><p>I'm pretty sure many of 'my maties' wanted to be my dominant hand right then. They were in for a stressful night. Old Joe showed mercy. Wasn't it encouraging? Boded well for both the kitchen and the toilets; the cooks? – not necessarily.</p><p>Was I too forceful on myself? Unlikely. I couldn't remember the last time I touched myself. My work provided all the good chemistry I needed. I'm not into bodily pleasures, and if I ever do it, you could barely call it 'fapping'. A quick work to release tension. And it was a pretty tense moment for me. Felt guilty for instigating Kill's disobedient attitude. Felt uplifted for a chance to learn about my family affairs. Was curious about the new bad boy in town, and happy that I was leaving that hole. Last but not least, it felt good that Mizaistom came to me for help. Out of all the bad guys he could choose from, it was me he thought of. Never took part in a murder investigation, since usually I was the one who committed the murder. Playing a detective presented a brand-new experience. A breaking point. So, yeah – all this got me a bit unhinged. I had to unload to keep a cool mind. At least that was what I kept telling myself. </p><p>The screw moved away, letting me finish what I started. Not a minute passed when I heard him howl in a distance: “Yer not in a loo, boyo. Put that back where yee found eet. Yee and yer maytee from the shqueer twenteeh-fayve.” </p><p>Damn, that geezer was sharp. If only this talent of his didn't belong to a gallery of curiosities. </p><p>My big day tomorrow. No, that's not right. Simply another assignment from father. Not a typical one but a job still. Better to stick to this mindset. It was the only familiar spot on the otherwise unfamiliar territory. Keep it like this, and it'll be all fine and dandy.</p><p>I finished without making a sound. If not for Old Joe's super-power nobody would notice. I reached below to wipe my hand on the underside of the bed. It struck me how similar I was to Kill then. My brother had a nasty habit of cleaning his dirty hands off on his shirts or trousers. This made mum frantic. “There are tissues for that, young man!” she would screech. Kill's reply was to stick his tongue out. He would lift his butt up, and swipe his palms on his buttocks in a slow, intentional motion. That or something as obnoxious. Mother would watch him stain his clothes even further and gritted her teeth. Kill got flogged for this several times, but it never stopped him. Neither it stopped mum from exhausting her vocal cords each time she saw her lovely boy leave food smudges on the fabric of his expensive attire.</p><p>Relaxed, I fell asleep. The last night in my solitary square and the best one in there, all things considered. My brother's sassy smirk on cream-smeared face was still shining behind my eyelids when I drifted away.  <br/> </p><p><br/>*</p><p> </p><p>They woke me up at 6 a.m. sharp. I took a shower. There was not a soul inside, only me and countless empty cabins. And a sleepy screw outside. Ten minutes to scrub myself good. Done with that, I found waiting for me, instead of my prison set, my old clothes; washed, ironed and folded. White shirt with long sagging sleeves. Short lavender vest with protective plating sewn in on the underside. To my surprise it still had needles stuck in it; some were simple adornments, but some were the real thing. A crimson wideband I used to wrap my torso with, from the ribs, to the hips. It had an elastic metal plating hidden inside as well, and it was still there. Protective measures. Always welcomed. My loose violet pants – no trace of blood on them. The pants ended up soaked in my target's blood if I remembered. My belt was not so lucky, though. They gutted it out merciless. Every single gadget Milluki asked me to test, and I decided to keep, was gone. Garrotte, zip line, miniature hooks, a couple of knifes, a couple of flares - all vanished. Even a lighter with false bottom. Such a waste. It was good for storing drugs (the truth-saying powder mostly). They also ruined my boots with a hidden blade.</p><p>I grabbed my stuff and changed, sneezing every five minutes. The washing powder they used… Were I as feeble as I appeared to be, I'd bleed out through my nose and died right then.</p><p>Next, we moved to the small annex hugging the kitchen. 15 minutes to enjoy my meal. It wasn't bad. In truth, it was quite unusual for prison food. I moved a handful of gummy bears and marshmallow aside, and gobbled up the rest. Fried eggs, potatoes with a generous amount of dill, a fresh beetroot salad and a glass of buttermilk.</p><p>Received nothing back from the property room. It looked like they deemed every item found on me after my arrest lethal, even if it was a handkerchief. So, I stepped outside wearing only my old attire with a few needles left there by omission. Two bulky guards assisted me all the way to a police car - its engine already running. They chained my arms and legs and only then let me on the back seat. </p><p>“We're going to the main police station,” the driver informed. “You have some newspapers over there. Get yourself up-to-date.” </p><p>I nodded my head and started flipping through the papers as we drove. Was concentrating on headlines. They went something like this: </p><p> </p><p><b>'</b><em>Infamous Needle arrested!</em><b>' - Pariston</b> <b>Hill, Chief of Yorkshin</b> <b>Police, informed this afternoon.  </b></p><p>
  <b>Man climbs a tree, claims he's an ant.</b>
</p><p><b>Raging fires consume abandoned toy factory overnight. Nobody dies.</b> </p><p><b>Woman found dead and mutilated. '</b><em>Even for Yorkshin</em> <em>this is gross,</em><b>' chief Pariston</b> <b>Hill sums up.</b></p><p><b>Horrible display at Tserriednich</b> <b>gallery. You call this art?</b></p><p>I fixed my eyes on the murky photography below the headline. It was a painting of a naked woman showing her insides. Her rib cage opened wide, spine, heart and other organs exposed. All red and rather ghastly. </p><p><b>Drugged woman feeds her husband strychnine. '</b><em>The ant king told me to. </em> <b>'</b> </p><p>
  <b>Toga Shi's magazines burn to the ground. Possible arson? </b>
</p><p><b>Police officer takes bullet to the arm. Saves stray dog and two cats. '</b><em>I'm kind to animals. </em> <b>'</b> </p><p><b>Another fire in NGL district. Police detective Morel Mackernasey</b> <b>admits '</b><em>Recent fires may stem from the same source.</em><b>'</b></p><p><b>Another gruesome victim of Headsman? Lieutenant Mizaistom</b> <b>wants you calmed. '</b><em>We have our man on the case.</em><b>'</b> </p><p><b>'</b><em>This is an art gallery, not a funeral home!</em><b>' Prince Tserriednich</b> <b>angry after young headless male is found</b> <b>nailed to gallery's front door.</b></p><p><b>Headsman leaves another corpse! 4-year-old in shock after finding woman's head inside mailbox.</b> </p><p><b>Police officers stop drug addict from committing suicide. </b><em>'I was born an octopus;</em> <em>I want to be reborn a squid!</em><b>'</b> </p><p><b>6th</b> <b>victim of Headsman found dumped in sewers! Will this nightmare ever end?</b>  </p><p> </p><p>From there on it was the Headsman, the fires and the victims of a new drug, over and over again. Predominantly the Headsman, though. Figured I found out my target's name. There weren't many photographs of the casualties. Killer's work too graphic for the public. Stumbled upon only one clear picture – the body already under black covers. It was lying on the ground at a weird angle. The lower spine was snapped. The corpse was bent to match the shape of the letter V. A small baggy next to it – a head. Mizaistom's forensic specialists surely had better quality documentation. Six victims if not more. A lot of records to go through. </p><p>The newspapers got me busy all the way to the Yorkshin police headquarters. The station was a tall, grey, massive building with many annexes, many windows and many doors. It took quite a lot of urban space. A hectic place. No end to people moving in and out. </p><p>I stepped out of the car to meet the worried eyes of my one-armed guardian angel of sorrow – Shoot. His partner stood further, next to the main entrance. A bunch of stray cats was pawing light circles around his feet while he tossed them snacks. Knuckle offered me his stormy I-hate-your-guts glare. The driver took off the chains locked on my ankles, but left the ones on my wrists, handing Shoot the key. With a light prod to my shoulder, Shoot encouraged me to follow. We didn't go far. </p><p>A patrol car appeared out of nowhere, speeding. It stopped, tires screeching, and blocked half of the pavement. An officer jumped out of it. Well build, no eyebrows, big eyes, dark hair slicked to the back, three small moles on his forehead and humped nose like a bird's beak. I cocked my head to read the name on his plate. Officer Colt. He yanked the back door open, dived in and pulled someone out of the back. A junkie stumbled on his shaking legs, panting and sweating. Colt locked the man's arms behind and steered him towards the front gate. </p><p>“You've no idea who you're dealing with!” the apprehended individual screamed. He had some fancy helmet on. A garden hose painted green was sticking out from the back of his pants. “I am the ant king, you fuck! THE ANT KING!” </p><p>“How many of you are there?” Colt grumbled, fixing his hold on the man's restless arms. “You'd be the third king this week.” </p><p>“Bow to me! I will rule this world, <em>mortal</em>!” </p><p>“Yeah, your majesty, whatever you say.” The irritated cop rolled his eyes. He nodded to Shoot and led his resisting burden forwards, little by little.</p><p>Knuckle held the door for the two and kept it like that, urging his partner to get a move on. The cats scattered away as we advanced.</p><p>“How's life been treating you, princess?” Knuckle snickered, twirling my washed, raven strand around his finger stinking of cat food. </p><p>Yesterday he deemed me ugly. Today I was princess. Some people just can't make up their minds. I averted my eyes, choosing not to react. Let's see who'll break first. I could go about ignoring people my whole life. Some grease in my hair won't hurt my feelings. Not that I had many feelings to begin with.</p><p>“We are taking you straight to lieutenant Mizaistom's office,” Shoot intervened before Knuckle had a chance to run his foul mouth again.</p><p>Mizaistom's office sat on the first floor, facing the forensics lab. Before they let me inside, Shoot uncuffed my hands. Then, it was only me and my captor. </p><p>“Never thought it would come to this” were his first words. He gestured at an empty chair standing next to the medium size, round table. “Have a sit. Coffee?” </p><p>Caffeine is diuretic. I politely declined. So did he, treating himself to a glass of milk. </p><p>The lieutenant didn't change much. Tall, almost slim but not quite there, he seemed slow. Misleading appearances. After all, he managed to capture the Needle. Not an easy feat. He had a sharp mind despite many flaws, a soft heart being one of them. Always had something sticking out of his mouth, a straw or a stick of some kind. His jaw was moving and moving. Made you wonder if he had an extra stomach to excuse that never-ending chewing. Everything about him was monochromatic. White shirt, black coat, white tie, black pants, white belt, black shoes. Melon hat - white with black spots. His face was no different. White skin, black hair. Didn't end there. The lieutenant had a birthmark around his left eye, a dark circle. As if the fate itself punched him in the face before he took his first breath. An eternal black eye. </p><p>“This is police headquarters, Illumi.” He sat in front of me on the other side of the table. “Nobody is going to poison you.”</p><p>“Care to tell me why I'm here?” I pretended ignorant. </p><p>“I assume you know.” He regarded me with his clever eyes. “But I'll tell you anyway, if only to make it official. Three months ago, a murderer appeared in Yorkshin. Criminal like you. Only worse.” </p><p>I raised my brows, waiting for more. </p><p>“I can tell the difference between a hired gun and a psychopath. Whoever is killing those people is not doing it for money.” </p><p>Possible reasons why Mizaistom knocked at my door for help circled in my mind since yesterday. And then it clicked. “Playing dirty this time round, are we?” I concluded, squinting my eyes. </p><p>“One plays as the opponent allows. We've used up all the means the law provides and hit a concrete wall. The Headsman is not only careful. He's influential or well-connected, or both. Such people are like sharks; we are but small fish to them. They think they can shrug us off. Yet, what they can't ignore is another shark in the pool. That would be you, utilizing your experience and understanding of the underground for our cause.” </p><p>“Would you allow me to sort it out my way?” </p><p>“I'm desperate, but not to the point of letting you a free roam. I don't want innocent people hurt. You will be under constant surveillance. Everything you come up with you consult with the leading detective on the case. He approves, you have a green light to act. You cooperate, you'll be met with a reward. Either an amnesty or a promise that a certain prosecutor ceases blocking your bail-out. I'm not happy about it. I'd sleep better knowing you rot in jail. But there is someone worse than you out there, Illumi, and I have exhausted legal ways to get him. This city's folks' safety means more to me, than one Zoldyck getting a chance to redeem himself.” </p><p>Redeem myself? Don't get your hopes up, lieutenant. “You are taking big risks,” I bluffed. “I could cut and run.”</p><p>“I caught you once.” Mizaistom stood up and leaned slightly towards me over the table. I stared him in the blackened eye, expression blank. “It took me six years to finally land you behind bars. I'm sitting in your mind now. I know exactly how you think. I'll catch you again if you dare.” </p><p>If he made himself as cosy in my head as he claimed, he must have realized. The moment I am returned to freedom, I'd be back to my profession.</p><p>“Don't strain yourself, lieutenant. My father instructed me to assist you the best I can. He was clear about it, and his word is sacred to me. I will help you get your murderer. I won't run.” </p><p>“Despite my birthmark, I'm not blind. I know your family tried to pry you out of jail. Their attempts failed so far. Pray, tell, what Silva did to make you so compliant? Has he promised you a new pin-gun if you behave?” </p><p>So, he <em> did </em> realize that once this was over, I'd head home to grab my needles again. I cracked a small smile. “He would probably have me waterboarded or flogged if I disobeyed.” </p><p>“Are you sure <em>this</em> is the family you want to return to?” </p><p>“Yup.” </p><p>Mizaistom let out an exasperated gasp. “It's a deal then. I'll have most of the crew here for a briefing in about 20 minutes. I want you to be present and familiarize yourself with the faces. Then Knov will show you around. This station and its surroundings will be your home for the time being. You should know where to find what and whom. After initial introduction Kurapika will fill you in on the Headsman investigation. From there on, I'll leave it with him. I trust his judgement like my own. He's a good kid.” </p><p>Knuckle and Shoot were still waiting outside. They scattered when Mizaistom asked them to inform the others about the meeting. </p><p>The forensics lab on the other side of the corridor had a windowed wall, all glass. A very long, spacious room it was, brightly lit from every angle. Lots of tables with many items on them. Material evidence - I assumed. There weren't many people inside, only two guys in a distant corner.</p><p>“Morel! Come over for a sec!" Mizaistom shouted. </p><p>Soon a big guy approached us, a trail of smoke marking his track. To say that he was huge would be an understatement. He held a grey panama hat in his hand and wore a short-sleeved shirt – no tie – and grey pants. Small, round shades covered his eyes, and an enormous pipe was sticking from his mouth. The smoke escaping it matched the man's hair colour. Other than that, his complexion was rather tanned. </p><p>“You called, boss?” he asked and blew out a neat smoky circle. </p><p>“A short briefing in my office when Knov arrives. Shouldn't take him more than 20 minutes. Tell the others. While at it, show Kurta's new assist the lab.” </p><p>“Sure thing.” The pipe-man extended his hand towards me. “Morel Mackernasey. Nice to meet.” </p><p>“Illumi Zoldyck.” We shook hands and moved into the bright space of the criminal forensics' laboratory. </p><p>Morel steered us back to the place he was called away from. His colleague was looking for something under the table. The guy was built pretty much like me. Even his hair was as long as mine, only white. There isn't a man who doesn't have at least one small, weird habit, and wearing a blue hat indoors was his.</p><p>“The fellow down there is Kite Reina.” Morel pointed at the thin man hunched over some kind of evidence box. “He's our forensics specialist. Runs this lab and sits here most of the time, unless he's on the field, securing evidence.” </p><p>A pale, slender hand rose from under the table for me to shake. I did. Kite never offered me a glance, nor did he say anything, focused on moving rustling baggies about. </p><p>“Your primary forensics technician is an entomologist.” I leaned in to better see a diploma hanging on the wall of Kite's working space.</p><p>“Yeah.” Morel laughed a good-hearted laugh. “And Kurapika's partner in solving a multiple homicide case is a convicted assassin.” He shoved me with his wide shoulder in a friendly manner, chortling facetiously. “Quite a team, eh?”</p><p>No question about it.</p><p>“If you go past this section of the lab and turn left, you will reach doctor Leorio's office. Taking into consideration who you are” - Morel blew out another circle - “I'd visit him before hospital if you need a medic.”</p><p>“I can take care of myself. Can you remind me who are we waiting for, detective?”</p><p>“The vanishing man, Knov. He's responsible for accommodation. If you need to move, he's the man who'll organize you the living space, equipment and provisions. He is also an expert in hiding surveillance on people and home appliances.” Morel surveyed me from behind his shades. My face didn't flinch a muscle, but I got the point. “His office is next to Leorio's. Knov is most likely busy setting up your cubicle.”</p><p>“Why the nick-name?”</p><p>“It's because one moment he's here, the next he's not, like he can walk through walls.” Morel burst out with laughter again. A jolly guy that one. “I respect his job. Not an easy one. But it makes him hard to come by. Mizaistom seems to be the only one capable of summoning Knov. I expect he'll be here before the meeting starts.”</p><p>“He’d better be,” Kite snarled from his bent-over-the-box position. “He owes me more room. I filled in a request months ago. Look at this place! You can't set a foot without tripping over.” </p><p>A door opened nearby, and rushed steps echoed. Noises were coming from the doctor's office. Soon, a blond guy in a black suit with white stripes appeared. He wasn't very tall. Before him a boy toddled, dark glasses on his nose, a cane for the blind in his hand, feeling the space in front of him.</p><p>“Briefing at Mizaistom's in 20!” Morel's strong voice carried across the lab.</p><p>The blond glanced at us, noticed me, recognized, but his expression remained still. “I'll drop Pairo in my office and be right back,” he said.</p><p>I looked after him as he manoeuvred the blind kid, until they both vanished around the corner. Couldn't help but notice detective Kurapika had scarlet eyes… To put it mildly. They seemed blood-shot, on fire. Apparently, he had some kind of condition. I saw the blue of his irises and few specks of whites under the web of irritated blood vessels turning his gaze red. If not for that, he would be a pretty handsome guy.</p><p>“Ah! Found it.” Kite rose to standing position. He had triangular bags under his eyes. Furthermore, he was holding a baggy filled with dirt, burned wood and what seemed to be a charcoal. Several printed pages accompanied it, some numbers and charts on them. “There you go.” </p><p>Morel took the things and shot the technician an expectant glance. “Can you sum it up for me real quick?” he asked.</p><p>“Nothing came up. Sorry.” Kite spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Looks like we'll have to wait for another arson to get a better-quality sample.”</p><p>“Do you even hear what you're saying?” Good mood left the merry detective.</p><p>To be frank, I expected more hostility. Something I had Knuckle to thank for. Most of Mizaistom's men seemed relaxed around me.</p><p>The door to Leorio's office flew open again. After a moment's quiet, a man with small round tea-shades rushed in. His white shirt was disorderly, with a loose black tie and a stethoscope dangling around his neck. An unbuttoned long doctor's coat was flying madly about his legs. He raised his arm ready to accuse, pointed a finger, and shouted:</p><p>“You MONSTER!” I checked twice, but it wasn't me he was referring to. He meant Kite. “For the last time: stop hanging these ugly beasts next to the entrance to my office. My patients deserve some peace of mind in the waiting room, not this!” He presented his other hand, some canvas in a wooden frame in it.</p><p>“Don't do that with 'Crazy Sloths'!” Kite cried and stormed to retrieve the painting. I tilted my head to the side for a better view. They were sloths all right, painted as if by a child's inexperienced hand. Not sure what was so crazy about them, though. One simply hung upside down next to its kin on a bamboo branch. “It's a gift from my mentor.” Kite cradled the thing in his arms like it were a baby. “I haven't seen him in years. Don't you wave it like that. You could have broken it.” </p><p>“Then keep it to yourself.” Leorio exhaled through his nose, all railed up. “Next time I see it on my wall, I'll trash it without warning.” Then he placed a butt in the corner of his mouth. Although it wasn't a butt, the smoke was never lit. I couldn't smell nicotine on the man either, only some mild anise cologne. This told me Leorio was attempting to quit smoking. Having one coffin nail nearby at all times was a common thing for quitters to do. For the same reason unsure swimmers never parted with lifebuoy. You don't expect to drown, but it's better to have a resource with you in case you start sinking.</p><p>Five minutes passed before Kurapika showed his scarlet eyes again. He was carrying a briefcase, a rather fat one. </p><p>“Sorry for the wait,” he said, appraising me with conservative curiosity. “The name's Kurapika Kurta. I'm leading the Headsman case. We will be working together. Brought something to clue you in.” He handed me the briefcase over. “It's not even the half of it, but it will suffice for starters. I'll bring you the rest later on. It's a lot of files to scoop through.”</p><p>A matter-of-factly individual. I wasn't the one to beat around the bush either.</p><p>“What's with the eyes?” I enquired.</p><p>“An allergy.” Kurta rubbed his eyelids with curved index fingers. “To spiders.”</p><p>“To spiders' web, to be precise,” Leorio chimed in and tossed a small vial the detective's direction. “Eye droplets. You forgot to collect when you visited with Pairo.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Kurapika mumbled, pocketing the vial.</p><p>“Caring for others is a virtue, but you won't be able to do it for long, if you keep neglecting yourself.” </p><p>“I'm fine.” </p><p>“So is governor Netero's moustache,” Leorio snorted. I could sense irritation in there. He spun around and went back to his office, one hand in his trousers' pocket.</p><p>“His jokes are always lost on me,” Morel muttered.</p><p>It was not a joke, more like a figure of speech. A warning. “Moustache is hair,” I explained. “And hair is <em> dead </em> cells.”<br/> <br/> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The briefing started with a slight delay. When I visited the lieutenant's office for the first time it seemed rather spacious. Now it was crowded, as if it shrunk sometime in-between these 20 minutes. The air was stuffed and to make it worse, someone was using insufferable, sweet scent perfume. The stench made my stomach jolt. Some of the people I knew: officers Colt, Knuckle and Shoot, detectives Morel and Kurapika. The blond was standing next to me and Mizaistom in front of the crew. Kite and Leorio were there too. The rest I was unfamiliar with. </p><p>“Thanks for showing up, everybody.” Mizaistom moved a straw from one corner of his mouth to another. “It won't take long. I want you all to welcome Kurapika's new partner, Illumi.” </p><p>I nodded my head slightly, running my eyes over the unfamiliar faces. Among them a girl with a stern look, blue eyes and pink messy hair tied into a ponytail. She wore fingerless gloves and played with some kind of nylon string.</p><p>Next to her stood a tall man whose gaze was on me ever since I entered the room. There was something off about him. His red curly hair seemed unkempt, falling over his yellow, narrowed eyes. He wore the ugliest sweater I've ever seen. It was too loose, too big, the sickening colour of old rust, with some card symbols pattern. Even so, one could tell he was well-built. He had a strong neck, broad shoulders, he seemed tough. If one worked out in a gym, it was to show one's body off, but not him – he kept it out of sight under these horrible, tasteless rags. Why was he hiding his frame? Another man, another secret. Besides, he looked like he did not belong there. That made me instantly suspicious. When you're searching for something, it is always good to remember the darkest place is right under the light source. </p><p>I have big eyes, that's why my range of sight is pretty vast. When the redhead noticed my attention sliding off him, I saw the tip of his tongue flicking between his lips as he raked lean fingers through his hair. I saw it in the corner of my eye; acted as if I didn't notice. He was also the one responsible for the sweet cherry stink filling the air. No wonder the good doctor felt so unhappy and tense having to stand so close to him. </p><p>“We swept your identity under the rug,” Mizaistom informed me. “Most of the officers don't know who you are, and I'd like to keep it this way. For that reason, I want all of you to refer to Illumi as Yellmi. Someone asks you for surname, give them something which is odd, but does not stick to memory. Like... I don't know. Gittarackur. Yeah, from now on, this is who you are.” </p><p>Gittarackur Yellmi. Not the worst alias. Somehow, I liked it. Sounded like something I would come up with on my own, had I to craft a pseudonym for myself. </p><p>“The people you see here” - Mizaistom presented me his crew with a wide swipe of his arm - “they are either assigned to keeping watch over you, or they are involved in the case one way or another. They received instruction to provide you with information from their field of expertise. When we are done here, Knov will show you around and take you to your apartment.” He gestured at a humble, tall, lean man in a black suit, standing next to Morel. </p><p>The man bowed a little, adjusting his glasses with two fingers. I couldn't help but notice his glance moved nervously to the right, where Kite stood, burning holes in the side of Knov's head. </p><p>“All right, we are through the most important part. Any progress on the firestarter?” The smoke-man shook his head. “Then you're good to go back to your duties, everybody.” </p><p>“One thing, if you will, boss.” Officer Colt cleared his throat loudly and stepped forward. </p><p>“What is it?” Mizaistom didn't even lift his eyes from the papers he was leafing through. </p><p>“Can we have some men on these drug peddlers? I had to fill in for the second drunk tank to accommodate all the new addicts.” He glimpsed apologetically at Knov. </p><p>“We are spreading ourselves thin as it is.” Mizaistom ran an opened palm over his face. Tired. “I don't have enough people.” </p><p>I moaned internally. Was <em> this </em> the organization I lost to? </p><p>“Soon we won't have enough room for all the ant kings and their guards. The numbers of junkies are increasing by the day since this new dope has found its way here.” </p><p>“Tell you what. Why won't you handle this?” </p><p>Colt stood in awe, shocked. “Me?” </p><p>“It's you who collects junkies off the streets anyway. Start your investigation. You get to the source of the new drug, you'll get promoted. Everybody” - Mizaistom looked at his people - “do what you can to help Colt out. You hear or see anything on the dope, report it to him.” </p><p>Officer Colt straighten up, his chest proudly puffed. I could see his eyes shining with emotion. “I won't let you down, boss!” he declared, squeezing words through a lump in his throat. Look at him sparkling. </p><p>That was it. When the crew left to their stations, Knov took me for the detour around the police headquarters. Showed me archives, offices, labs, cells, storage, armoury, parking lots, canteen, gym, restrooms. They even had a pool in a separate building. Knov was not sparing me details, but he told me only what I needed to know. He was also keeping a quick pace. I knew whose attention he was trying to evade.</p><p>“Our last stop is under the ground. Then I'll take you to your personal quarters,” he said when we were descending the stairs. “The morgue and the dissection room. Machi Komacine and Hisoka Morow work there. Since it's the last stop for all the murder victims, you may want to ask them what they found on the corpses the Headsman left behind.” </p><p>We entered the corridor to the dissection room when an ear-piercing shriek sounded and halted us half way. </p><p>“Stooop. Right. There!” It was Kite. He aimed his finger at Knov, working his thin long legs so fast they seemed fuzzy. </p><p>My tour guide coughed in his fist. “I better talk to him, otherwise he won't stop stalking. Go straight down this corridor. The door you want to knock on will be on your left.” </p><p>I moved along, leaving Knov to his determined fate. Found the door and knocked twice. It opened before my hand managed to drop to my side. The familiar golden eyes welcomed me; they were beaming. </p><p>“Oh, what a <em>pleasant</em> surprise,” Hisoka chirped, letting me in. Machi was nowhere to be seen. “Hopping on the case already?”</p><p>“I'm being shown around,” I said, taking in the interior. No corpses on any of the four tables. All sterile clean. Only artificial white lighting. A door to the right, closed. In front of me was a white iron wall with many small doors to many cold pockets the dead laid in.</p><p>“All the Headsman's victims were taken to the crematory,” Hisoka said, noticing what caught my attention. “Until he kills again, I can only share documentation from previous autopsies.” He drew nearer, moving with grace. Odd, taking into consideration the ugly sagging clothes he wore. “No dead bodies for you to inspect, sir. Unless it's not a <em>dead</em> body you are looking for.”</p><p>“It's the Headsman I'm looking for, Mr. Morow,” I informed bluntly and stepped away. </p><p>“Pity. He's not here.”</p><p>I eyed him up and down, once again struck by how out of place he appeared to be. “Are you working here for long?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“Since when?” </p><p>“It would be three months now.” </p><p>Three months. About the same time the Headsman began to lose decapitated people on the streets. </p><p>“Why are you working in the morgue, Mr. Morow?” </p><p>“Am I being interrogated? So soon?” Hisoka minimized the distance I was attempting to create between us. “What could I have <em>possibly</em> done to arouse suspicion, Illumi?” </p><p>“It's Yellmi.“ At that time I did not suspect him of anything specific. I only… suspected him. “Judging by how much you like the colour red, I'd say you enjoy either flames or blood a bit too much. Do you like playing with fire, Mr. Morow?” </p><p>“You tell me, Mr. Gi-tta-rac-kur.” He forced himself on me to the extent my back arched. I nearly leaned on the cold dissection table's surface. The redhead was way too close for my liking. To make things worse, the cherry choking smell intensified. I grabbed him by that abominable sweater of his, pushed myself up, and swirled us around, reversing positions. </p><p>“I couldn’t care less about the firestarter. That's not what I'm here for. But I don't like you. You don't belong here, Morow. I wouldn't trust you even with a corpse.” </p><p>The redhead tittered, supporting himself on elbows, still sprawled on the table. “Your words wound me. It isn't me who is setting properties ablaze. Nor am I your killer.” He sighed, nearly undressing me with his lustful gaze. “Between you and me, I envy the Headsman a little right now. If I could, I'd switch places.” </p><p>“I'm not expecting you telling me your secrets straight off.” </p><p>“Oh, by all means, have those black eyes on me, Illumi. I have <em>so</em> much to show.” </p><p>His hand moved up to touch my cheek. It never happened, though. I dislocated the middle joint in his middle finger. Didn't break it. Couldn't risk it on my first day on the job. For all I knew, he was invading my personal space, and I was only defending it. Even though one look at this man's face told me he would not complain to the authorities. The moment his joint popped out of place; he froze. Then his lips parted in a surprise, and one second later they curled up in a smile. </p><p>“It's Yellmi, Mr. Morow,” I reminded, letting the enchanted man and his weirdly angled finger be. </p><p>Before I reached for the knob, the door opened on its own. It was Machi. She peeked inside, spotted Hisoka and ignored him. He was still smiling dreamily at his crooked finger, as if it were a special gift rather than a contusion. Then her focus was back on me. </p><p>“Can we have a word?” she asked. </p><p>“Sure. Was leaving anyway.” </p><p>Knov stood on the other end of the corridor, listening to Kite's many naggings. Machi strolled next to me, when suddenly I felt her forcing a piece of paper into my hand. </p><p>“Danchou's orders,” she spoke. “There is a watchmaker's shop not far from here. It's run by Shalnark. He's one of ours. You know the place?” </p><p>“I know it.” Milluki wouldn't stop babbling about it when he learned that he had common interests with one of the Troupe. He exchanged quite a lot of gadgets with the watchmaker. </p><p>“Your folks left you something there to collect.” Machi lowered her voice, “On the note is the code word.” </p><p>“Thanks.” I pocketed the note with a relaxed motion, as if it weren't a pleasant surprise for me. Before I had a chance to say anything else, she spun around and walked back towards the dissecting room.</p><p>It was only natural for Chrollo to install his agent in the police headquarters. I never met the man in person, but he seemed to follow me everywhere I went. A phantom indeed.</p><p>Kite and Knov were still arguing over some cubic meters. </p><p>“My work requires space. What you gave me is not enough to place a trash bin!” </p><p>“Your lab is the biggest in the entire building <em>complex</em>.” </p><p>“You are hiding more room from me,” Kite insisted. “I know you can give me more storage for samples. I <em>know</em> it! I'm having two new students coming over next week. Where will they practice? On the rooftops?” </p><p>“Fine, <em>fine</em>, I'll see what I can do.” Knov corrected his glasses. It was a nervous motion. He received the sight of me approaching with a visible relief. “Now, if you'll <em>excuse</em> me, I need to show Yellmi <em>his</em> new room.” </p><p>He snatched me by the arm, and we stormed away.  </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>My place. They accommodated me on the 7th floor, Kurapika was living in the same building, only 3 storeys lower. Made us neighbours. The whole building was the police property, of course. It stood five paces away from headquarters. The apartment wasn't big, but it was larger than I expected. One living room, a very tiny space that could hold only a bed and a wardrobe, one bathroom and a balcony. The balcony cheered me up the most. The room was bright. If it weren't so gloomy outside, I'd have the sunbeams peeping inside almost until sunset. </p><p>The balcony overlooked the busy Yorkshin streets. From there I could see shops, restaurants, clubs, rows of old tenement houses, cars. All swimming in the glow of the neon lights. How fast it got dark. Time flew. It was well past 8 p.m. Could even see the Tserriednich gallery from there. When I glanced up, I saw one more storey above. I liked the high places. Then again, what assassin didn't like them. Wondered if Knov would be so kind and let me up there. Decided to ask tomorrow morning.  </p><p>In the bathroom, I splashed my face with cool water. One glance at Kurapika's briefcase told me I was in for a sleepless night. Grabbed the files, turned on the lamp, and made myself comfy in the armchair when the knock at the door sounded. It was Kurapika. He brought me something. I thought it was forever lost when it wasn't handed back to me on my departure from prison. My dark green, needle-pierced coat with high collar and my fedora. I run my finger over the scratchy fabric. The hat's band was all needles, all ammunition, no adornments. Too bad I had no gun for it. It was a touching moment, though. Literally so.</p><p>“Someone forgot to return it to you.” Kurapika sat down in the nearest armchair; elbows on his knees, hands clasped together hanging between spread legs. He hunched his back a little; made him look aged. “How far in are you?” He nodded towards the file case. </p><p>“Only started.” </p><p>“The truth is, I already know who the Headsman is,” he said in a calm voice, his expression distant. “Limited it to two suspects, and one of them must be it. No doubt in my mind about it. Still, I want you to read this first.” Another case landed in my hand, a much thinner one. “Let me know what you think. You won't find my conclusions in there. Since I have a fresh pair of eyes on this, I thought, I'll use this opportunity to double-check my reasoning against your hunch. Tomorrow I'll let you in on everything I'm omitting today.” </p><p>“You want us to compare notes.” </p><p>“Something along these lines.” </p><p>“Would it be possible for me to gain access to the rooftops?” There was nothing to lose asking it and everything to gain. The whole place was crawling with surveillance anyway.</p><p>Something in Kurapika's eyes lit, and not in a negative sense. It was a happy light, if one can say that about a man who looked solemn most of the time. </p><p>“Surely a good view from there,” he said, addressing his own thoughts more than my question. “Leave it with Knov. If you don't find him in his office, which is most likely, pass the request to his secretary. She'll take care of it.” </p><p>We said goodnight and off he went. When I opened the thinner file case and riffled through pages something slipped out of there. It dropped to the floor slowly, like a feather. A card. The four of diamonds. There was a message written on the front side. It read:</p><p> </p><p><em> Have a problem? </em> ♠</p><p><em> Need a partner in crime? </em> ♣</p><p><em> Come on over any time. </em> ♥</p><p><em>Signed: The Magician. </em>♦</p><p> </p><p>What are you trying to achieve here, Mr. Morow? Showing off that you are able to sneak your way past the scarlet eyes? I will visit when need be. Then again, this man was up to no good. Kurapika was not stupid. If he ruled him out as a potential Headsman, then it most likely was a correct assumption.</p><p>If you were into assassination for as long as I was, you picked up on certain things instinctively. The problem with instincts is, sometimes you can't tell precisely what is it that sets the alarm off. Unless you actively search for clues. Mr. Morow could bathe in his cherry deodorants all he wanted, and I'd sill smell it around him. The stench of death. Hisoka reeked of it, and not only because of his current occupation. I could sense gore on him from a mile away.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. No rest for the wicked</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As long as murder is considered, if it comes from the heart, it bears the ugliest fruits. The photographs of the Headsman's victims were a perfect example of that. What a mess… Although both of us were taking lives, there was a crucial distinction between us. I was only doing what otherwise my clients would do, were they not lacking courage, skill or resources. There was no emotional investment in it, only instructions how to carry out the job I followed to the letter. Once in a while it was ordered messy. More often than not I was free to choose the time and the means. Then it was a needle or two to the vital organs. Simple, clean and fast. Time is money after all.  </p><p>With the Headsman it was a whole different story. That guy cherished his handiwork. I could tell by the sheer amount of effort he put into making the casualties look the way they did. How many hours it took to shatter so many bones in the body? How much time to position the broken human shell in an appealing configuration? Cutting the head off wasn't easy either. Unnecessary hassle for a professional. You did that to a person – you were not simply erasing them from the book of the living. You were… expressing yourself, from the lack of a better term.  </p><p>The deceased were all young women and men between their 20s and in their early 30s. Pretty faces. He brutalized the bodies beyond recognition. Each bone broken, limbs contorted, spine twisted, bruises on bruises, fair skin turned violet-brown. But the heads appeared untouched. The Headsman removed them from the torso together with the neck. To do that he used a sharp, wide blade, a machete most likely. The cut was smooth, made in one go, no rough edges. Then he planted the head or hanged it somewhere close to the rest of the gory exhibition. There was one common theme there, apart from the decapitation itself. Every head had a collar attached. Thin, long nails hammered around the neck held it in place. Some of the nails were crude, but some were stylish, with small floral carvings along the length. From such a collar extended a simple leash, like the ones you could buy in a pet shop. A head on a leash beside the rest of the grotesquely mutilated corpse. This was the Headsman's leitmotif.  </p><p>The fact that the murderer separated the neck in a single blow told me it was rather a man's work. Kurapika questioned quite a lot of people, the majority of them males. Three hundred and ninety-eight souls. He narrowed the number to 40 pretty quick. Took him extra month to further halve it. And now he claimed the number was down to two. Mizaistom's words echoed in the back of my mind. The murderer was someone well-connected and resourceful. He could pay his way out of trouble either by bribing the right people, or by hiring a professional assassin. Checked the list of names Kurapika composed. Paid special attention to politicians, people of great influence in media and finance. As well as underground lords, and people rich by birth who developed a taste for an outlandish art. The typical Zoldycks' clientèle. </p><p>It was getting bright outside when I read all the content of the thinner briefcase. It was protocols from questioning sessions with the most probable suspects. Short biographies and criminal records attached to each individual. Also managed to dig through a quarter of the fat case. The fat one held documentation of the items found on the victims and around the crime scenes. It also held autopsies' outcomes and other forensic stuff only Kite understood. One cuff link attracted my attention. It was found on the male victim. Even though, it seemed so elegant it most likely belonged to the murderer himself.  </p><p>By the time early sun rays peaked into my room, I already had my types, the lucky six. I was pretty sure I had two of Kurapika's favourites there. Then again, Kurta said he did not tell me all yet. Felt ready to exchange first impressions, though.</p><p>I moved from the armchair. My bones creaked. Stretched myself a little to even louder cracking sound. Spending the entire night in a sitting position, only one arm moving to lift a mug, that was no way to treat your body. I stepped outside to my modest balcony. Yorkshin streets were busy as ever. That forsaken city never slept. Sort of like me. My jobs brought me here way too often. I knew this pit like I knew my own pockets.  </p><p>A kid's laughter reached me somewhere from below. The voice seemed familiar; or was I imagining things? I leaned over the balustrade in a rushed motion to check the commotion on the pavement. Almost spilled my coffee in the process. A bunch of giggling boys. They were chasing after a simple toy on a wire. Poor kids' entertainment. None of them sported the silvery hair. I blinked; my eyelids heavy all of a sudden.  </p><p>Turned on the radio. After a moment's hesitation I took it with me into the bathroom. You don't do that, unless you want to give someone a chance to fry you in a tub. But I had to refresh myself and ought to get some news from the outside world I was so abruptly returned to. The day is only 24 hours long.  </p><p>On the radio nothing new. Thefts, rapes, threats, deaths, corruption, vandalism, drugs and fires. The firestarter was at it again. “The last night 'Circus' hotel burned to the ground,” the speaker informed. Her voice was too cheerful for the amount of dreadful news she had to share. “The property belonged to Light Nostrade, a renown Yorkshin real estate holder. He bought the estate two years ago with the intent to restore it to its previous glory.” Some white noise in the background, then a strong voice growled: “It was this god-damned arsonist. I'm sure of it!” Mr. Nostrade barked into the microphone. “I swear, if that prick, Pariston, doesn't do anything <em> this instant</em>, I'll take the matters into my own hands! This negligence is <em> outrageous</em>!”  </p><p> </p><p>*  </p><p> </p><p>Bathed and dressed, I put my trench coat and needles-adorned fedora on. Strolled straight to the headquarters and from there to the vast space of Kite's lab. The slim guy was in, hunched over one of the many tables, a magnifying glass in his one hand and a bullet shell in another. I glanced at the wall where his diploma hung. It had a neighbour now, 'The Crazy Sloths.' Weird thing; now that I looked at them from a different perspective, they <em> did </em> seem a little whacked out.  </p><p>“Is Knov in?” I enquired.  </p><p>Kite took his stare off the shell, presenting triangular baggies under his eyes. “Of course, he's not. Better get used to that. I hope you memorized his face. You may never see it again. His secretary is in, though.” He motioned his head toward the office and went back to studying the bullet. Kite could have warned me then. He chose not to.  </p><p>I entered the small corridor. Walls painted warm white, row of chairs on both sides, leading to Leorio's office at the far end like road signs. Nearer, to my right, was Knov's office. I knocked and heard a female voice say: “Come on in.”  </p><p>The moment I entered the room, I recoiled. A wall of smoke punched me in the gut, as if the sheer density of it brought it to life and made it rampant. A horrible smoker sat inside. It took a moment before my eyes adjusted to the pinching fog. Shapes of things were barely recognizable through the thick mist of nicotine fumes.  </p><p>“Here to see Knov,” I announced, closed the door and moved in. Carefully.  </p><p>“Oh, sweet naiveté. You must be new.” She sighed; another string of smoke formed in a distance. “What's your name?”  </p><p>“Yellmi Gittarackur. Came to ask permission to access the rooftops.” I finally made it to the desk. The fog was so compact, you could lean on it, and it would keep you afloat. Although the room had windows, neither one of them was opened. </p><p>The smoker was a tall brunette. A beautiful woman, despite the unhealthy addiction. Her long black hair was falling over her shoulders in countless, curly waves. Big sapphire eyes looked down when she rummaged for something in the desk drawer. She fished out a single paper sheet and glimpsed at me. The evening-sky blue irises sparkled. She rested her chin on the lean hand with long, sharply trimmed fingernails painted black. The smoke's tip glowed between two slim fingers.  </p><p>“Name's Palm Siberia.” Her voice lost its previous bored undertone. “My! Aren't you handsome. Fill it in and sign it over here.” The black nail pointed at the paper and tapped it twice.  </p><p>I filled in the request and signed, using my pseudonym. Palm's gaze was burning holes in my bent down forehead all that time. When I finished, she turned the paper her way and scrutinized it.</p><p>“You came up with this alias on your own?” She snorted. Two white stripes of nicotine fog escaped from her nostrils.  </p><p>After this question I wondered how was it that Mizaistom managed to keep my identity under cover. </p><p>“No,” I replied. “When can I expect Knov to approve?”  </p><p>Palm pursed her lips as if she was thinking about the answer. From the way she was looking at me, I could tell it was not my question she was considering. I decided to drop it right there and leave before I suffocated, when she stopped me with her words:  </p><p>“He's checking in once in a while. I assume you'll have your reply by tomorrow.” Palm stood up, tall and lean, dressed in a black jacket and a medium-length velvety skirt. She moved like a cat, the cigarette still in hand, and blocked my exit. Disturbed lines of smoke danced in her wake. “I know how it feels.” She leaned against the exit door. “He is never here when I need him, either. And I need him a lot.”  </p><p>I tried to push her aside, to no avail. The secretary took a long inhale and blew the smoke straight into my face. I squinted my eyes and held my breath.  </p><p>“You can always wait for him in my company.” Palm lifted her skirt up, exposing the smooth thigh. This girl was not wasting time. “Like what you see?”  </p><p>Could hardly see anything through the thick layers of cigs' toxic fumes.  </p><p>“Move. Please,” I mumbled, trying to reach for the door knob.  </p><p>“I like dangerous men. That's why I work in the crime investigation division.”  </p><p>“I doubt Knov would approve of your current behaviour.”  </p><p>“He's never here!” she complained almost as if I were the one responsible for her misfortune. “It drives me crazy.” Palm pressed herself closer to me, her leg hooked on my lower back. Meantime I managed to reach for that door knob. Getting no reaction out of me, she yanked my hand off the knob, placed it on her leg and moved it upwards, towards her waist. “Sometimes I feel dangerous myself,” she purred, and exhaled the smoke to the ceiling. “I see myself running with a knife, stabbing and hurting innocence. Things you've done often, huh?”  </p><p>“My targets are rarely innocent people.”  </p><p>“Oh!” she gasped. Her midsection rubbed against mine. She didn't need my help; she was running on her own wild imagination. “Tell me more! Tell me how you kill. I want to hear all about it!" </p><p>“Sorry, lady, I am not here to feed your fantasies.” I had to apply some force to push her stubborn ass out of the way. That was when she surprised me. </p><p>Palm fished out a knife somewhere from her pantihose and jumped at me. I took a stab in the hand. Were it normal circumstances, I'd be already at snapping some necks. But I had to restrain myself. Couldn't hurt anyone under Mizaistom's nose. Palm's crazed pupils focused on my face. She anticipated to read something from it, but I didn't give her the satisfaction. The woman mused over my static expression for a while, then murmured under her breath:  </p><p>“Now, look what you've made me do.” She licked the blade clean of the little blood my wound left on it. “You should take it to doctor Leorio. He will be thrilled.”  </p><p>Well, at least if I needed some information out of Palm, I knew what her currency was. A little plaster on the stab would not hurt either. It was about time to introduce myself to the medic. It is always preferable to be on good terms with a healer. You never know when you'll need one.  </p><p>Not to my surprise, the door to Leorio's office stood open wide. Two men blocked the entrance. Officer Colt was struggling with some big guy. The man had a goatee and a bushy hair the colour of platinum blond that resembled a lion's mane.  </p><p>“I am the master of the wild!” he rumbled. He was tossing his massive frame left and right in a futile attempt to escape the firm lock of Colt's strong arms. The guy had a plaster on his forehead - two pieces of it formed 'X'. It ruined his intimidating conduct. “Give me the ant king!” he roared. “I'll rip him apart and take his place!!”  </p><p>“Yeah, you will,” Colt agreed, his expression dismal. “In a cell.” </p><p>“Damnit, Colt, just take him away,” Leorio pleaded, looking unhappy. “Next time ask me downstairs. I don't need dope-heads destroying my workplace.” The doc noticed me cupping my cut hand and held the door for me. “Bleeding already?”  </p><p>“Visited Knov's office,” I said as if that explained it all. As it turned out, it did.  </p><p>Leorio cracked an all-knowing smile. A smoke dangled from the corner of his mouth – that one unlit for a change. “My office is next to Knov's for a reason.” He giggled, bobbing his head. A good inside joke. “It's not the first time Palm has tried to cut someone up. Your hand.”  </p><p>I extended my injured palm. Leorio disinfected the wound and wrapped it with expert precision.  </p><p>“Shouldn't she be on some pills?” I asked, watching him work.  </p><p>“I'm not a shrink, but anybody could tell she has a screw loose. Except Knov. Love is blind, you know. Palm wouldn't be here if not for him. Well, at least she's using clean blades.” He chortled and clapped me on the back. “It will heal in no time.”  </p><p>This was possible only in Yorkshin.  </p><p>Back in the lab, I met Mizaistom's sad expression. He was pacing the corridor back and forth, a telephone on a long line in his hand, receiver pressed to this ear. The lieutenant listened more than talked.  </p><p>“Mizai is on the line with procurator Krueger,” I heard Kurapika's voice next to me. “She's unhappy with us recruiting you and reminds Mizaistom about it every day.”</p><p>“Sorry,” I said.  </p><p>“So, what do you have for me?”  </p><p>I named my six types. Most of them rich collectors of rare and obscene items, like human body parts or unsettling sculptures. Among them prince Tserriednich Hui Guo Rou. I added Hisoka Morow to the pile just to hear what the detective had to say about it. Kurapika looked down at his feet, digesting what he had heard.  </p><p>“Interesting,” he said finally. “You have named one of my suspects. The strongest one.”  </p><p>“Who is the one I missed?”  </p><p>“Camilla Hui Guo Rou. Why have you ruled her out?”  </p><p>I explained, how it looked like a man's work to me. They both were in their homeland for half a year. The moment they returned to Yorkshin, bodies started surfacing. Even so, Tserriednich's sister seemed too fragile to be able to commit such an act. She also did not share her brother's taste in horrific art.  </p><p>“I'm sure she could stomach something like this.” Kurapika rubbed his reddened eyes. “I am considering her an accomplice more than a main culprit. As for the others, I can congratulate you on your instincts, since they all are up to no good. But they are not the Headsman. Morow for instance was assisting in dissection of the fourth victim when the fifth one was found. He's not it.”  </p><p>If so, the prince had to be it. Camilla somehow didn't fit into the picture. Not for me. Having read Tserriednich's questioning record, I could tell the guy was sly. Nonetheless, apart from his gallery of paintings on pain and torture, there was nothing to accuse him for. I could see the trouble Kurapika faced. And I could understand why Mizaistom resorted to non-standard methods. The man seemed untouchable.  </p><p>“I still need evidence that Camilla is not involved,” the detective continued. “What is more important, I need hard evidence that will bury Tserriednich. Everything I have leads to him. Your opinion strengthened my conviction. But it is nothing concrete.” He clenched his fists, looked at the floor, blond brows furrowed. “The court won't jail him, unless I have solid proof of his guilt.”  </p><p>“Why not send a spy?” I asked.  </p><p>“Did that. That's the thing I kept from all the reports. You can't send a spy after the descendent of royalty of a foreign country. Not without creating an international affair should the matter come to light. I still did it, in secrecy. She went missing. Nobody heard from her since. I predict she's dead. Can't even report about the circumstances of her disappearance. Not, if I want this investigation to carry on.”  </p><p>Even though, I knew what the reply would be, I suggested regardless:  </p><p>“I could just kill him and save us both the trouble.”  </p><p>Kurapika leaned in and lowered his voice. As if he was afraid that Kite – who seemed to live in his own world anyway – could overhear. “If I allowed you that, what would be the difference between a law-abiding citizen and a criminal? As ugly as Yorkshin is, some rules of social conduct still hold here. Without them, we would be living with animals, and you and your despicable family would go bankrupt.”  </p><p>Maintaining the pretence of being civilized at the risk of further casualties? How paradoxical. He was right, though. If everybody was at liberty to follow the 'might makes right' rule, us Zoldycks would suffer a huge blow.  </p><p>“Besides, I need certainty. Only then will I approve forging evidence against Tserriednich, should nothing solid come up. Before it happens, we keep digging.”  </p><p>“I'm about to visit a watchmaker, if that's allowed.” Seeing no objections in Kurapika's scarlet eyes, I added, “Still have a lot of documentation to read through. Shouldn't take longer than a day or two. Once I have it all organized in my head, I'll share a couple of suggestions.” </p><p>“Murder by any means is out of question,” he stated, his tone demanding.  </p><p>“Understood,” I confirmed in a flat voice, not to show how much I regretted that the best option was off the table.  </p><p>“Fine.” Kurapika nodded, his blond strands fell over his bloodshot eyes. “You know where to find me. Remember to report in frequently. You're still a convict.”  </p><p>It was hard to forget that.  </p><p> </p><p>*  </p><p> </p><p>Walking to Shalnark's shop, I noticed a car that kept an even pace with me. Why of course it were my two guardian angels. Knuckle was behind the wheel and Shoot looked worried. An internal, never-ending one-armed man's struggle. What was it that troubled him so much? Did he mourn his lost arm? The moment Knuckle noticed me glimpse their direction, he leaned forward. He pointed two fingers at his own eyes and then pointed them at me. I shrugged his body language off. At least he was not making noises.  </p><p>There were no clients in the shop when I entered it. The place wasn't spacious. A lot more happened in the back, where Shalnark stored his whatever it was. It resembled a dumpster for used electronics. The representative part of the shop looked decent. Clocks and watches displayed on shelves, some of them decorated with a thin layer of dust.  </p><p>The code-word Machi provided me with was not a word but a full sentence. It was also something Milluki would not only say, but think 24/7.  </p><p>“How can I help you, sir?” a blue-eyed, blond, well build workshop owner greeted me.  </p><p>I quoted the code-word, face deadpan: “I will take a potato chip and <em> eat </em> it.”  </p><p>Shalnark's lips formed an excited 'o', his eyes grew larger. He hopped over the desk, some electronic instrument in his hand. He pressed a button on it, it clicked, and then he moved it in front of me. With a circular motion of his finger, he ordered me to turn around. So, I complied.  </p><p>“This will temporarily disable any surveillance you may have on you,” he explained. Shalnark changed the information on the front door from 'Opened' to 'Closed'. Then he slid his butt over the desk, back to where he stood before. He placed his hands on the counter and leaned forward, looking all too happy. “I've got your stuff. Hold on a sec!”  </p><p>What he brought from the back was a rather large metal box. “Your brother must be a cool guy,” he said.  </p><p>“That, he is.” I looked at the box. It bore signs betraying someone tried to peek inside it. That someone being the very Spider Milluki entrusted with the box. “He likes to collect gadgets as well.” </p><p>“These are no gadgets, sir! These inventions will revolutionize the world!”  </p><p>“You even sound like him. I'm guessing you tried to break into it.”  </p><p>“Yep.” No guilt in there whatsoever. Being an honest person myself, I appreciated frankness. “But it is very tightly secured. Nice job indeed. Couldn't take a peek inside without leaving marks. I have no death wish, so I stopped there.” He handed me the items with reverence.  </p><p>“Aren't you working for Chrollo?” I asked, taken aback by his upbeat, joyous attitude. He didn't strike me as a person who'd join the fearsome Phantom Troupe.  </p><p>Shalnark laughed and nodded. “You got me there, mister. Well, they are intact.” He patted the metal cover. “I was instructed to tell you; you wear the key on yourself. Whatever that means.”  </p><p>I knew what that meant.  </p><p>“My shop is always opened for you, should you need repairs, regular goods, or–” He winked.  </p><p>Watch me come to your shop for repairs – a sour thought came to my mind, but I said, “Much appreciated.” And grabbed the box. It was lighter than it seemed. Not forgetting about my two shadows, I looked around. I should buy something to excuse my visit at watchmaker's in case Knuckle felt like being nosy. “Got a watch I could borrow? I'll pay for it later, once I opened this thing.”  </p><p>“No need.” The Spider took a random watch from the stand and handed it to me. “On the house!”  </p><p>With all the spiders inside – I figured. </p><p>In truth, I'd rather Milluki didn't rely on the Troupe to move our toys around. Shalnark was pretty blunt about trying to steal our tech. Chrollo, is there anything in the world you'd not try to put your hands on?  </p><p> </p><p>*   </p><p> </p><p>Back at my apartment I went straight into unboxing. It felt almost like birthday. The key was my needles. Had many caches with them hidden all over Yorkshin. Luckily, some were still pinned on my garb. It took four to open the container. Inside was a handsome amount of Jenny. A plethora of drugs, one wondered what for, since I was forbidden to act on my profession. A no-pay coin – every Zoldyck had one. With it, you could use any phone booth without paying for the service. You slid the coin in, talked, and after hanging up, the coin was vomited back from the coin slot. It also worked on most of the vending machines. I received all my favourite tools back and gained some extra ones. Milluki was coming up with new ideas daily and didn't waste any opportunity to test it in the field. He also sent me my 'blend-in' get-up. It was a simple black turtle-neck, dark trousers and matching trainers.  </p><p>And there it was, on the bottom of the box. My heart pounded lauder at the sight. The pin-gun, exact copy of the one that got confiscated. It resembled a revolver, only gilded, and the barrel held needles instead of bullets. 7 rounds. Their shiny heads scintillated at me from their slots. Felt uplifted having it at my side. Still, I should not be too trigger-happy. Shots fired from this gun were too easy to trace them back to me.  </p><p>I left a coded letter for last. Milluki explained in it the usage of few items I found and had no idea about their function. They turned out to be trackers and signal killers. This way I could call 'the residence' without being overheard by surveillance. Yet, why would I want to call 'the residence'? I was not on any assignment. And then, his last words: </p><p><em>Kill is in Yorkshin. You see him, kick his ass, and remind him of his promise. He has an agreement with father, and he's breaking it already! You know how I feel</em> <em>about leaving the mansion, so be a good bro, will ya? </em> </p><p><em> Good luck, </em> </p><p><em> MZ. </em>  </p><p> </p><p>Kill was somewhere in Yorkshin… I looked out the window on impulse. Although the temptation was great, I couldn't risk going near him in the open. Could still peek from the shadows, to keep Milluki posted. Even if it was just an excuse. I would do anything to know how Kill was faring. He was so close, and I had so many questions. What was his goal? Why was he in Yorkshin? What was the deal he struck with father?  </p><p>A rustling sound brought me back to reality. Someone approached my door without alarming me up until that minor noise. I stood up, fast and silent, only to hear two loud knocks. Lax, I opened the door. There was no one on the other side. Only an envelope plastered to the door's front. I looked around, checking the shadows on the far ends of the corridor. My sneaky postman was still out there, making sure the message reached the addressee. Could sense him, even though I couldn't see him. I yanked the envelope off. On its other side resided a burgundy seal with a golden pentagram in the middle – my family's sign. I checked the shadows one more time, having some clue about who planted the message. Spread my arms wide and showed thumbs up. Dead silence. Not even a giggle. Good. I returned to my room.</p><p>When I tore the envelope open, a long chain of paper dolls depicting the Zoldycks greeted me. My image was in the middle. You could tell because of the hair. Kalluto, my youngest sibling, loved paper. For him, it did not end on artistic applications of it, like making origami, fans or those cut-out shapes. He was never tired of asking Milluki about the lethal properties of paper. 'Just watch, Illu-ni–' Kalluto told me one day during our training, 'watch me take my marks down with paper cuts!' My brother was sweet like that. He was pretty skilled already. A very good performance, smuggling in the message from father.  </p><p>When I read it, my eyebrows went up so high, it's a wonder they didn't scrap the ceiling. Despite my predicament, dad assigned me to an assassination contract.  </p><p> </p><p>*  </p><p> </p><p>You know the stories about human infants abandoned or lost in the woods, found by wolves, accepted in their pack, and raised by them? Well, it happens. The Wild Thing was one such kid. Nobody knew how old she was. I heard crazy stories about her on my first missions in Yorkshin, years ago. She spent most of the time in the woods. When it was getting colder, starting autumn and during winter, she emerged from the trees to stalk the city's outskirts. She hunted for the easiest prey – the humans. The forest hugged the NGL district – the most neglected part of Yorkshin. NGL was where the poorest lived and where the unlawful activity of all sorts flourished. Nothing there was ever renovated. It looked like a bomb dropped on it ages ago, and nobody cared even to take out the rubble. The perfect feeding ground for wild-life. And the autumn was almost upon us.  </p><p>It turned out that some rich daddy's boy had visited a place where he should never be. Most likely he got lured into NGL by many hookers, offering their bodies for a better-quality food. There were also dirty brothels where unimaginable things could be done to you – or someone else – for the right price. It's no secret that when everything of the highest standard has been already tasted and tried, the spoiled upper class turned their heads in search for a new source of entertainment. They often found it on the very bottom of the social ladder. Here desperate people struggled to survive daily. They were ready to do a lot for the right favours. The unfortunate youngster never had a chance to try NGL's attractions. The Wild Thing stuffed her stomach with him, apparently.  </p><p>The contract was not Zoldyck-exclusive. An opened contract meant whoever offed the Wild Thing first got the prize. It had no deadline. Which was most likely, why father assigned it to me. My guess was Silva wasn't even very interested in it. Otherwise, he'd ask Zeno. Grandpa loved hiking and picking mushrooms in the woods. </p><p>Milluki must have known dad's plans, that's why I found a little recorder and a camera in the box. I'd need the camera to document my kill, should I be the one who reached her first. In which case, I'd need to call 'the residence' after all. Milluki was mindful to leave me the dates of news reports on the Wild Thing, recent and past ones. Millu, you're such a treasure. It was a good thing that headquarters had archives. They updated it daily. I planned to look into Headsman's journalistic reports anyway, so, while at it, I'd check the reports on my mark. Nobody would suspect anything. </p><p>I went down to inform Kurapika where I would be for the next few hours. I knocked, and heard “It's opened,” so I let myself in.  </p><p>“Is detective Kurapika home?” I asked and looked around.  </p><p>He wasn't, but the blind kid, Pairo, was. He walked my direction, his stick moving side to side. I doubted he needed that in his own living zone. Guessed, Pairo wanted to let me know about his condition this way.  </p><p>“My cousin is in his office at the moment,” he informed, his voice small and timid. “Can I pass him your message?”  </p><p>“Tell him I'm in archives, should he be looking for me,” I said, and he nodded.  </p><p>Did I mention I'm a perceptive guy? While waiting for Pairo, I had a peek into Kurapika's bedroom, since the door was left ajar. There was a huge chain lying on the bed, which would not be that odd of a deal. It was messily covered with a white sheet, blood splotches started to soak through it. One wondered how detective Kurta's back looked like. Yorkshin inhabitants; each one broken, if not from a fist between the eyes than from a spit in the soul. What was he atoning for? I looked at the modest kid. He was smiling at me silently, as I was retracting from the front room. The blood on the chain and his blind eyes… Probably connected somehow. Not my business.  </p><p>“Have a good day, sir,” Pairo said.  </p><p>“Likewise.”  </p><p>Spent more time in the archives than I expected. Papers on the Headsman brought nothing new to my knowledge. Still, I left some on the display to cover up my other objective.  </p><p>I found the newsprints Milluki pointed me to. According to the reports, every time the Wild Thing attacked, it happened in the NGL district. So, it was the place to wait for her. <em> To wait </em>– that was my biggest problem. Normally, I would nest myself atop one of many NGL ruined tenement houses. I would sit there until the Wild Thing manifested her hunched person. That I couldn't afford doing. The contract demanded haste. I decided to go there the next day. With a bit of luck, I'd find some clues on where she might be hiding. Easier said than done. Me not being near Kurapika all the time could be excused. I had a huge amount of documentation to familiarize myself with after all. I told him earlier it might take one or two days, so I had to stick to that. Two days to hunt the Wild Thing down.  </p><p>There were two more matters to take care of. I had every reason to suspect they hid some surveillance in my old clothes. Milluki took care of that sending me my 'blend-in' apparels. I also had this fancy signal killer. It was a good idea never to part with it. It wasn't big – a round thing that fit your palm, with a single button to press.  </p><p>Next, I had to think about getting rid of my two shadows. How about instigating a little break out from the neighbouring pet shop? I bet it would shift Knuckle's attention. Knuckle loved stray cats and dogs, he fed and patted every little animal he stumbled upon. If the local pet shop was abruptly running out of goods, would he not be there for the rescue? I was quite sure he would choose saving Spotties and Fluffies over stalking me. Whatever the tactics, they both ought to believe I remained either in headquarters or my apartment. I needed them distracted for 2-3 hours. When they would inevitably check on me later, I'd be in my room, looking all flabbergasted.  </p><p>I slept with that and came to terms with one realization. Sometimes you need to leave it to luck and your ability to improvise. The kill had to be delivered within the next two days, otherwise someone else would get the money.  </p><p>Early in the morning I went into Kite's lab. Asked him to find me the cuff link and artistic nails I saw on the Headsman files. The technician informed it would take him about 3 hours. Perfect. I had a quick glimpse at 'The Crazy Sloths.' The animals were getting weirder and weirder, their stare intense and… creepy. What an odd painting.  </p><p>Then I moved to the canteen. Got myself a glass of water with a lemon slice and sat by the window. The canteen was a wide, bright place. It provided a nice view on the outside. You could see busy streets from there, pedestrians, cars and…  </p><p>“What may be going on inside this head,” a singsong voice ringed behind me. “Considering defection?”  </p><p>“I don't intend to run away, Mr. Morow.” I glanced at him blankly. He wore this morbid sweater again. Only nope, this one had a different card pattern. Yet the colour and the general ugliness remained. At least he changed those rags.  </p><p>My attention went back to the outside. I waited for something, couldn't even place it. For a sign, for some clue. You get that sometimes, when you let the daily events unfold around you, as if you weren't there at all. As if you were a mere object. Alas, it did not always work. Hisoka for instance failed to ignore me.  </p><p>“Black suits you. Underlines the eyes,” he chirped. “Am I still a suspect?”  </p><p>“Yes.” I never clarified what I meant by that and stopped paying him any more attention.  </p><p>That instinctive alarm that went off each time I saw Hisoka – it had to be met with understanding. Another small investigation to calm my nerves. But it had to wait. One assassin can only do as much at a time. The Wild Thing was a priority. If she wasn't dead by my hand in two days, I had to drop the assignment.  </p><p>When Hisoka was lowering himself to sit next to me, I jumped off my seat, eyes opened wide. There it was! A sign. A dogcatcher's car, to be more precise; all howling and barking inside. On me, I had all the tools required to kill the Wild Thing in case I got lucky. There was no wasting the opportunity. I stormed out of the canteen, leaving Mr. Morow offended to the core.  </p><p>Knuckle and Shoot were making themselves visible for me at all times. They were chatting, observing the front gate and especially the building I lived in. I sneaked behind bushes, using vegetation to get closer to the car. In it were at least several animals. Nobody saw me. Hisoka didn't follow me. The dogcatcher made a stop near the pet shop. Business matters. He was there long enough. I managed to break open the car's back door and open all the cages. Not a minute passed when the hell broke loose.  </p><p>The animals jumped out of the car, howling for joy. The dogcatcher jumped out of the shop, screaming bloody murder. Knuckle soon got himself involved in a chase after runaways. Shoot looked confused and hesitant. I crouched behind low growing shrubs, watching. Knuckle's back grew smaller and smaller as he moved further and further away from me. I took a deep breath and bolted towards the NGL district. I used rooftops when I could. It was the best highway for assassins and thieves. Always has been.  </p><p> </p><p>NGL was as putrid as I remembered it. A perfect representation of Yorkshin's essence. Its core – ruined and crawling with disease. When I made sure nobody followed me, I started the search. If only I wasn't accompanied by the unsettling feeling of someone's eyes on me ever since I entered the district. I put it down to the 6-month break from practice. It's a long period. Getting back to my prime condition would take time. Nervousness was understandable.  </p><p>I found the place I saw on the article describing the recent wild child's attack. Blood was still visible on white sandstone debris. Found a high place I could see the woods from. One good thing about NGL was, nobody cared to notice a guy hopping from one rooftop to another. Still, I did my best not to draw too much attention. Good habits die hard – not everyone can say it about themselves.  </p><p>I was pushing my luck, staying there for as long as I did. It was well over 3 hours, when the risk paid off. Wasn't I fortunate?  </p><p>There she was. The Wild Thing. Covered with blood head to toe. Below her some gutted corpse, a young boy, a beggar nobody cared for. Good for me. She ate; her reactions would be slow. Easier to kill. Even so, I shouldn't assume that. She was the Wild Thing; a kind of foe I never faced before. It was more like hunting an untamed animal. Better to keep thinking about it like that; helped to stay alerted.  </p><p>For a while I trailed her, keeping the stooped creature moving mostly on her fours in sight. Her hair was a long dirty, muddied mess. She had a thick layer of some old damaged clothes on. The belongings of her previous human preys. None of the parts matched. They were there to keep her body warm. Animals have no fashion preferences. I steered against the wind when possible. I was moving so that the moment she spotted me I could force her to run further into the ruins rather than the forest. She reached the trees, and she was on her turf. The ruined houses presented <em> me </em> with the upper hand.  </p><p>How to go about it? It couldn't be anything loud, no guns, no blazing powders. Had to avoid unwanted attention. A needle would be perfect. One pin-shot to the back of the head and behold, I claimed the contract. Were it normal circumstances, it would be long over. The odds of someone discovering her body pierced were very slim. Should it occur though, the type of the fatal wound would make it easy to connect this death with me. No. I didn't need that. It had to be done in a more personal fashion. Silent. A knife, or several. I had the right items ready.  </p><p>The wind changed direction. The Wild Thing tensed, stood up on her two, and sniffed. Her human eyes, green like dull grass, tracked the smell straight to me. It was race time.  </p><p>She bolted to the left, heading for the trees. I foresaw that and took the right position. She noticed me landing in front of her and realized she won't make it in time. The Wild Thing turned around and darted towards ruined houses. For her, it was a maze, for me, it was a perfect opportunity to set a trap. I had a good glimpse from above earlier. I took several small, oddly shaped knifes Milluki left for me in the box. Utilized them to force the panicked beast to go where I wanted her to go. She moved the wrong direction; the knife flew her way. The blade either connected, stung, and made her take the correct turn, or it chipped off some dust from old bricks. Still made her turn. Soon she faced the dead end. A tall brick wall it was, the shape of a horseshoe. Nobody would see anything. The optimal place to make a kill.  </p><p>My growling Wild Thing had nowhere to run. It was a good place to die. For her. Deserted, uninviting surroundings. If I hid her corpse under the rubble there, she would rot away undisturbed.</p><p>She swiped at me with a blood and muck covered hand, exposing sharp, crooked nails. Dirty, lots of bacteria. Had to be mindful not to let it scratch me. I blocked her attack with a claw of my own. Stainless steel, five sharp movable blades you could keep hidden, and pull it out when need be. The construction held on a set of metal bracelets wrapped around the wrist. The bracelets connected with five rings for each finger. 5 sachets hiding blades ran along the back of the hand, reaching fingers' first joints. Looked refined. Almost like jewellery, the lethal kind – the best kind. It worked nice; cut even nicer. Everyone in my family had a pair of them tailored for their hand size.  </p><p>The Wild Thing couldn't appreciate the finesse of it, though. Just an animal realizing it was a life-or-death situation. Primal instincts told her she was either going to kill me, or die trying. I appreciated the lack of words exchange. Someone else would try to talk their way out of it. Often, they begged me for mercy or called out to my conscience. Not the Wild Thing. She needed no words, possibly didn't know any. And so, we got straight to it.  </p><p>My claws were far superior to hers. Her exhales caused more damage than chaotic throws of her paws. She might have been raised by wolves, but she wasn't one. Between her teeth, I could see stripes of meat she tore off that unfortunate beggar. The Wild Thing tried to scratch and bite, and kick her way out of the dead end. No grace to her movements whatsoever. First, I chopped off both of her hands, mindful not to get too much blood on myself. None if possible. Then it was only to reach either the heart or the throat. The throat came first. Slashed it with a wide swipe to the right, moving myself to the left. The bloody splash missed me and stopped on the wall, marking it with a long red trail. A moment later the Wild Thing was bleeding out, convoluted before me. Her body twitched in spasms. Throes of death. Took a few photos as a proof of honouring the contract. Next, I started digging a hole in the debris. Too bad, I had to use my bare hands. It was no big deal, though.  </p><p>When I was busy hiding the corpse, I felt someone's presence behind me. Pretending unaware, I assumed the best position to strike. I jumped at the bold fellow, two claws extended from my bracelet, ready to poke through those snooping eyes. They were yellow.  </p><p>“Bored with life, Mr. Morow?” I asked in a whisper, pressing Hisoka's back to the brick wall, blades close to his carotid artery.  </p><p>“Don't kill the messenger.” His voice was dripping with something; excitement or fatigue. “Thought you'd like to know Kurapika is panicked. He's running like a headless chicken, ordering everyone to search for your fine ass, since you vanished like a dream.”  </p><p>“Maybe I was after the one who pulled your heart out?”  </p><p>“Come now, Illumi. Don't tease. There's nothing for you to worry about. I'm not telling anyone you're back in business. Otherwise, I would have to admit that I enjoyed what I saw. It would show on my face. Trust me. I find it difficult to control my elation, even as we speak.” He licked his lips. “Quite a performance you put on, Illumi.”  </p><p>“It's Yellmi, Mr. Morow,” I reminded in a calm voice. He was like a stubborn child with how he refused to address me in a correct manner. Yet, I babysat, and then trained, all my siblings. Due to that I developed bottomless reserves of patience. I blinked twice when his words finally sank in. “What's your angle? Why are you stalking me?”  </p><p>“Only want to be friends.”  </p><p>“Don't need any.”  </p><p>“How about an alibi?”  </p><p>I retracted my claws and tipped my head to let him know I listened. If he was true, and my disappearance drove Kurapika bonkers, I had to find a way to remedy the situation.  </p><p>“I shall craft a little lie to save your swan's neck from the detective's clenching fingers. I'll tell him a story about how I took you for drinks to discuss autopsies. I'll take all the blame. Isn't that handsome of me?”  </p><p>I narrowed my eyes, thinking the offer over. My stomach revolted at the sheer concept of owing him. Even so, the alibi sounded believable, let alone I needed one.  </p><p>Then it struck me. Someone's gaze was on me the moment I reached NGL. Pretty sure, it belonged to Hisoka. The same man who grinned in front of me seemed convinced Kurta was losing his hair over my absence. Morow wouldn't be able to know that if he entered NGL about the same time I did. Unless he used somebody to tip Kurapika off with a slight delay. All because I ignored Hisoka's little, rhymed invitation. He was making sure I'd have no other choice than to rely on his help, should I want something done which was not related to the Headsman's case. I could feel Hisoka's lubricious eyes on my still face. His head tilted, as if he was looking for a button to turn my expression back on. He wouldn't find any. It would be unwise to betray I saw through his machinations.  </p><p>“Nothing comes free.” I let go of his ugly sweater and nearly dusted some dirt off his shoulder to cover up how I felt about offering a trade to this treacherous, cunning redhead. In truth, I deeply desired to break all his fingers. “What's your price for lending me a hand?”  </p><p>“It's a small favour, so I'll think of something as insignificant.” He tapped his cheek with a lean, long digit, and I stared, taking his show in. “Let me think about it. I promise, it will be something you can afford.”  </p><p>On our way back Hisoka stared at me as if his life depended on it. It almost felt like he was already taking his undeserved payment. Turned out he didn't exaggerate the gravity of the situation. People were frantic. If eyes were knives, Knuckle would murder me many times before I could reach the front gate. One-armed Shoot appeared troubled. We entered the police station, faces surprised at all the surrounding havoc.  </p><p>“Where <em>the hell</em> have you been?!” Kurapika yelled the moment his reddened eyes noticed me.  </p><p>“Oh boy!” Hisoka began his act. “It's all my fault, good gracious, I never have thought… Detective!” He pressed his sprawled, spidery fingers to his chest in an 'I'm-about-to-faint' motion. “Yellmi was with me all this time.”  </p><p>“Was that so?” Kurta fumed, but I could see his tension diminished.  </p><p>“Yes, took him to the pub. Alas, it wasn't what I expected. He's boring like you have no idea. All work and no play. We discussed autopsy results <em>mostly.</em>” He rolled his eyes, his face elongated in a display of utter tedium.  </p><p>“He's a convict, Morow.” Kurapika buried his index finger in Hisoka's ugly sweater's front. “<em>Anything</em> he does, I must be made aware of. You can't just take him for ice-cream, and you know it.”  </p><p>“I'm terribly sorry. It won't happen again.” Hisoka's expression was that of a sad puppy. “Not that it was worth it in the first place,” he muttered.  </p><p>Next, Kurapika's gaze was on me. “My office, in 5 minutes.” He turned on his heel and marched away.  </p><p>“Move your finger off my ass crack,” I demanded in a low voice, when the detective walked away far enough. The side effect of taking care of your little brothers is, your voice carries a playful tone, even if you are dead serious. And the more someone acted a brat, the more I sounded like a babysitter. Somehow people still knew when they were crossing the line.  </p><p>“Oops! Sorry.” Hisoka corrected his stance immediately. “Sometimes, I forget myself while playing a role. You must have noticed by now I can be quite convincing performer.”  </p><p>“Just how good an actor do you think you are?” I asked, my mind back on the Headsman's case.  </p><p>Hisoka sighed, his back hunched a little. Golden eyes lost their glint. The ugly, sagging sweater sagged even more.  </p><p>“I have issues, but I'm not the Headsman, Yellmi.”  </p><p>“I'll see about that,” I threatened and followed after Kurapika, not looking back.  </p><p>I entered the detective's office. Kurta stared at a tall bookcase; his hands clasped behind his back.  </p><p>“Is there a point in me asking if any of what Hisoka said was true?” he inquired.  </p><p>“Yes.” Lying was not my strongest suit. Unfortunately, the way Hisoka played it out, I had to bluff. “I was assured you were informed about our consultations.”  </p><p>“Well, you've been lied to.” </p><p>Now it was time to play fair: “I can't say I regret it. See, detective, I'm already working on the case.” He looked at me expectingly. “Even though you crossed Morow out, I don't like him even more after today. I'd like you to let me consider him a suspect, until I'm sure he's innocent.” Ugh, <em> innocent</em>. This word in relation to Hisoka tasted sour in my mouth.  </p><p>“And what are your plans exactly?”  </p><p>“When he's off work tomorrow, I'll tail him for a couple of hours. A regular spy work. Place a tracker on me, if that will calm you.”  </p><p>“Report everything that turns up. I'm giving you one day only. If you don't find anything on Hisoka by tomorrow night, consider him <em>not</em> the Headsman and <em>live</em> with it. By that time, I also expect you to read through the rest of the documentation.”  </p><p>“I'm almost done with the files.” I knew I trod on thin ice.  </p><p>“You are dismissed,” he said.  </p><p>I found the phone booth in headquarters. Used the signal killer, slipped the no-pay coin into the slot and called 'the residence.' After two beeps a familiar voice spoke on the other side: </p><p>“The residence.” It was Canary, one of our butlers. Despite young age, she was very competent thus far.</p><p>“The dog's been put down. Vet left some memorabilia.” </p><p>“Understood." And the line went dead. </p><p>Back in my room, I readied proofs of the contract fulfilled. The photographs of the curled lifeless creature and the NGL map with marked spot where I hid the corpse. I put the evidence inside a make-shift envelope and placed it under a mug on the balcony for my brother to collect.  </p><p>Then it was straight back to Kite's lab, to check out the things I asked him to dig out for me in the morning. He offered more than I wished for. In a result I spent there until midnight. Kite prepared 3 tables worth of material evidence.  </p><p>Although people who knew who I was behaved as if everything went back to normal, I could feel tension around me. I glimpsed at Kite's painting. Even the Crazy Sloths seemed to observe my every move. Their small, brown irises with distinguishable dots of pupils looked even more schizoid. I understood why Leorio couldn't stand them on his wall. Their little eyes were boring into your guilty conscience. As if they <em> knew, </em> and it was only to their courtesy that nobody has learned your best kept secrets yet.  </p><p>When I called it a day, I dragged my feet to my apartment. On the staircase on the 4th floor, Kurapika waited crossed-armed in front of his door. He nodded his head when he saw me, said nothing, and vanished in his apartment. He was checking on me. Damn it. People were losing sleep over my short absence. Illumi, just look what you've done!  </p><p>The evidence I left on the balcony was gone, replaced by a paper doll. This time it depicted only me. On the left side there was a heart-shaped hole. A sign of affection. Not that Kalluto intended to tell me I was a heartless bastard, even if it would be just stating the facts. Minus the bastard part.  </p><p>I read the files till 3 a.m. I planned to sit tomorrow in Kite's lab until Morow's shift was over. By then, I'd have all documentation reviewed. Besides, had to repair my reputation.  </p><p>The lamp switched off; I turned the radio on. Don't have many favourite songs but one. It played on the radio, and rocked me to sleep. The melody was slow, to a marching beat. The singer's torn voice almost made me believe in his sorrow. Although it was about killing, it was not about me. I'd never dream about killing the ones I loved. </p><p>I never remember my dreams, unless there is blood in them. As odd as it sounds, I rarely dream about bloodshed. When I do though, I near always wake up to a hard erection. I don't know how it works. I've spilled so much blood I am positive it doesn't arouse me in the slightest. Some other thing in the night-visions then? Perhaps if my dreams were more vivid and stuck to memory, I'd understand. Or maybe… Sometimes, it's better not to know. </p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. You do not talk about Fight Club</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Let me tell you about my great-great-grandmother. Her name was Mirai Zoldyck, and she was a globetrotter. No matter from how remote an area an assassination contract arrived, she took it. The more distant the place, the better. It is my theory that her voyages made our family's name recognizable in every corner of the world. But that's beside the point. She wasn't doing it because she liked sightseeing. She had a flair for botany.</p><p>Vegetation with lethal properties held her special interest. Mushrooms dripping neurotoxins, coma-inducing toadstools. A special kind of wild berry – one was enough for your mouth to foam. Nothing dangerous. Combined with a bit of acting, it helped trick people to believe you had an epileptic seizure. A cherry-bomb – its seed sat in the stomach until a certain type of food was digested. Only then the coating around the seed melted and released a heart-stopping poison. Looked like a heart-attack, yet was anything but. The beautiful thing about that cherry? You could manipulate the type of food that was to release the deadly core. A blue moss that was a base for many hallucinogenic drugs. Rare forget-me-nots which could smooth out the deepest scars over time. So many wonders of nature Mirai brought on her way back from travels to far-away clients in far-away places. Countless seeds, seedlings, sometimes even full-grown plants. Once, Mirai returned home transporting a whole tree, the monstrous root system intact. There were legends in the family about it. She further examined the plants for their properties and an efficient way to use them. Until the next contract from an exotic land flew in.</p><p>Her poisonous tree was still growing in our garden, like a monument to her inquisitive mind. Mirai started a greenhouse. It is flourishing till this day in our residency on Kukuroo Mountain. She added a lot to the garden that was already there. Her killer paradise was one of my favourite places to relax while I stayed home. The air was mildly intoxicating around certain parts. Nothing a true Zoldyck couldn't handle. I enjoy mixing toxins myself. They make my needles assortment less monotone. Almost every needle of mine has a tip dipped in some paralysis inducing substance or another. I like to think it would make my great-great-grandma proud.</p><p>Her contribution to our business taught me much. When I saw floral lines on Headsman's nails and embellishments on cuff links, I thought of Mirai's knack. The ornaments actually were inspired by an existing plant. We were growing it, since it had pretty nasty properties. Who consumed it, bled – from everywhere. The poison in leaves raised body pressure to such levels that blood vessels burst open, one after one. An ugly death. A messy one, too. Mirai brought it from a mission somewhere in Kakin Empire. Which also happened to be prince Tserriednich's homeland.</p><p>I was much aware it wasn't close to the hard evidence Kurapika needed to convince the court. Yet, I wanted him to regain confidence in me. This plant link to Tserriednich made him happy, even though he did his best not to show it.</p><p>I read all the files by 2 p.m., and by 4 p.m. I examined the material evidence Kite prepared for me. Like a thief in the night, he added two tables to the initial three. When did he manage that? The baggies under Kite's eyes told me he suffered from insomnia. Or was he a workaholic? Or… I glanced at 'The Crazy Sloths.' Was he possessed? That day the animals emitted an overjoyed aura. They smiled at me, like they were on dope. I squinted my eyes and glared back at them. Could hear the door to Leorio's office open. The man waltzed in, noticed me, and came closer. He leaned over my shoulder, smelling of mild anise cologne. Pleasant scent, not intrusive, unlike somebody else's deodorant I knew. We watched the painting together.</p><p>“Each day I check, there seems to be something awfully off about them.” Leorio froze in his stiff, bent over position, one hand in his doctor's gown pocket. The unlit cig dangled from the corner of his mouth. "What's wrong with these guys?"</p><p>I shot Leorio a glance. In my early years, when I was learning my craft, I often ended up looking like a human sieve. It was then that I gained a certain level of confidence in doctors. My grandfather kept telling me that, when I was recovering from blood loss in my bedroom. “You need to trust doctors, boy. They'll see you at your most vulnerable. They'll sink their tweezers inside your wounds. They'll patch you up places you didn't even know you have. They'll feed you drugs, while you're holding onto your dear life. They'll see you like the day you were born, naked and at their mercy. You <em>need</em> to trust them, boy. They ain't trustworthy, make them suffer.” Then he would spit on the floor and add: “You can't trust a medic, erase him from this Earth, for all I care.” That was odd coming from Zeno, who'd never kill anyone who was not a target. But he made this one distinction for doctors. Why? Because he is a firm believer in principles. There is the assassin's way – you only take the life you've been paid for. For Zeno, this is the rule which cannot be broken, unfortunate accidents aside. A similar oath medics take – only theirs is about saving lives. If you broke the rules, you made Zeno very unhappy. And for him a healer and a killer were like yin and yang – and so, he held both sides to the same high standards.</p><p>“I don't know what unsettles me more, their eyes on me, or yours.” Leorio turned his head to look at me. I could see my own still face reflecting in his tea-shades, staring.</p><p>Before I had a chance to reply, we heard rushed steps coming up. Some cop I didn't know stopped, noticed Leorio, and said:</p><p>“We need you downstairs, doc.”</p><p>“What is it now?” Leorio made a tormented face. He already knew. I knew, so he definitely saw the writing on the wall.</p><p>The cop scratched the back of his head before saying: “It's about the butterfly man. He's broken into hysteria. Colt thinks he's a violinist from the Yorkshin Orchestra House, so we tried to be delicate with him. But now he just sits in one spot and cries.”</p><p>“A hysteric butterfly musician?” Leorio let out a resigned sigh and adjusted his shades. “Be right there. Lemme grab my bag.” And he marched to his office.</p><p>It was 17:40. Hisoka's shift was near done. Kurta let me go after him on one condition: I had to carry a tracker on me all the time. Not a problem. The cells for junkies were on the ground floor, near the stairs leading to the dissection room level. Morow would be passing them on his way out. A convenient excuse to watch him leave just manifested itself. Before Leorio came back with his bag, I already had my trench and hat on.</p><p>The butterfly man sat his skinny butt on the cold corridor tiles, one level below cells. Perfect for me, not so much for the cops. Four of them, Colt in this number, stood around him like a living fence. Make-shift antennae on two springs shook on the top of the musician's blonde head. He attached a pair of colourful wings to the back of his white, puffed-sleeve, old-style shirt. They got damaged. I leaned in to check his depressed visage. He <em>was</em> the Orchestra House violinist. Shaiapouf. Quite a talent. Artists – you think highly of them, but you'd be surprised how low they are ready to fall in search for inspiration.</p><p>Pouf extended his lean arm towards no one in particular. “I wasn't worthy,” he whispered, “I'm not good enough.” Then he tore the shirt on his chest and yelled to the ceiling: “I let you down, kiiing! Will you ever forgive me?!” Some bad trip, right in front of me.</p><p>“He is like that since we've found him,” Colt approached Leorio. “This nut job was racing for half an hour non-stop. Calmed down when he tripped over his own legs. He might have sprained his ankle.”</p><p>Leorio knelt and reached for Pouf's leg, but the butterfly wouldn't let him touch it. He started sobbing and demanded everybody in the reach of his voice to accept that he wasn't good for the ant king. In the end, Leorio sold him a shot – a sedative of some sorts. After a while the musician became flaccid like a pierced bicycle tire. Soon, he was sleeping. One snot escaped his nostril and moved dangerously close to his parted lips. The ankle turned out bruised but whole. Officer Colt searched the man's pockets for family contacts.</p><p>“Would you look at that,” he said, bringing to light a small paper square. Its upper part torn, or rather chewed off. Its content was what told Pouf running circles in butterfly apparels was a smart idea. On the small sachet shined one word: 'Chimera'.</p><p>“Seems like you've put a name to your drug.” Leorio patted Colt on the shoulder. “Good work, detective.”</p><p>Meanwhile, I was glimpsing the morgue direction. It was 18:14. Hisoka's shift was over. Either he was taking his time or left earlier, which would be unfortunate. All at once, the door to the dissection room flew open. Machi bolted out, fuming. When she noticed a bunch of us at the far end, she took a sharp turn at the first junction of the corridors. And there was Hisoka. He was moving lazily, smirking, his one hand flatting out his ugly sweater. Morow was holding a medium-size backpack. He turned to leave. I darted up the stairs, before the butterfly caught his attention.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It is not hard to tail someone who smells like a teenage girls' shampoo <em>store</em>. And so, it was not hard to keep up with Hisoka. Even when I lost him from sight, my nose was my guide. First, he strolled into a bakery for a doughnut. On his way out a young girl accosted him. Her hair, long and blue, were tied up in a bun that laid hidden under a triangular shawl on top of her head. Thanks to my training, I could lip-read. The girl offered: 'Want me to tell your fortune?' And Morow replied: 'Ask your own fortune what will happen if you keep bothering me. Scram!' He said that, sneering. I tsked internally when I noticed Knuckle and Shoot's car, approaching the bakery. They parked next to the shop. We had an agreement with Kurta those two won't be nagging me that night. As it turned out, they were there only for doughnuts.</p><p>At a certain point Hisoka started meandering between alleyways. Made me worried; thought maybe I got sloppy. Been a while since I spied on someone last. But no, such was the way to his destination. He took a turn to the right and vanished inside what looked like a dance club. 'Wiggle Tussle' – the neon sign announced. Two high raw-brick walls created a narrow passage to the club. In front of the entrance stood a bulky, bald gatekeeper. A thick cigar between his fingers like sausages.</p><p>“You here for the wiggle or for the tussle?” he asked, looking bored out of his mind.</p><p>“Excuse me? Isn't it a dance club?”</p><p>The keeper's face changed drastically. His features sharpened. “Beat it!” he snarled and made one heavy step in my direction.</p><p>He mistook me for someone frail-hearted. Going past that guy called for some brute force. I would be lying through my teeth if I claimed my finger was not itching to pull that trigger.</p><p>I glimpsed behind me to make sure we were alone. Pulled out my pin-gun before he had a chance to reach to his holster. I grabbed him by the shirt, pressed his back to the wall and fired one needle into it, barely an inch from his ear. The keeper's eyes darted right where a shiny, gilded head twinkled in a spray of choking concrete dust. Something made me looked there too. Oh, it's been such a long time, my shiny, deadly friends. This is the lesson Killua hasn't learned yet – if you need a friend, better make it your weapons. I did. Have never regretted it since. I trailed my eyes back to the keeper.</p><p>“You will let me in or the next one goes straight through your throat.” I pushed the muzzle of the gun inside his mouth so deep, I most definitely broke his front teeth. “Do we have an understanding here?” I asked in my kindest voice.</p><p>Only when the guard nodded, had I pulled the gun from his gob.</p><p>“You can keep the needle.” I pointed at the fired bullet and let myself in.</p><p>The place looked like any other dance club in Yorkshin: loud and crowded. The air was sticky, the ventilation couldn't keep up with many exhales stealing the oxygen. The smell of liquor was overwhelming. People danced on the dance floor to the Yorkshin special type of music. It was deafening, no lyrics, only guitars and percussion. A violin or a trumpet intruded on rare occasions. Installation on the high ceiling moved many lights in random directions. Mirrored disco balls hung everywhere, their flashes blinding to the eyes. Finding Hisoka wouldn't be easy.</p><p>“Holy moly!” I heard a familiar voice and turned around.</p><p>It was Feitan. Two other people accompanied him. One was a tall, blonde woman with heavy eyelids and nose as big as her bust. The other one was a thin, anorectic guy, his whole body wrapped in bandages for some reason. He wore boxing gloves and didn't speak much. Because his mouth was bandaged too.</p><p>“Long time no see.” I tipped the rim of my hat, realized I still had it on, and opted to take it off. It was getting hot.</p><p>“Call me Pakunoda.” The woman offered me her hand to shake. I accepted it. She had a firm grip. Another few of Chrollo's Spiders. “I manage this club. And <em>the other</em> club as well. So, are you here for the wiggle or for the tussle?”</p><p>“The gatekeeper asked me the same thing,” I said, taking my trench coat off. “I have no clue what it means.”</p><p>The Spiders exchanged glances.</p><p>“This is a secret place,” Feitan informed, waving his umbrella back and forth. “Since it's not secret for you any more, remember this one rule: you do not talk about Fight Club.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did you kill someone to get here?”</p><p>“I left this option on the table,” I admitted. “But the keeper decided against taking it. He let me in for a few grams of dread.”</p><p>Feitan furrowed his brows. “I don't like the sound of this. The gatekeeper who does not keep the gate.”</p><p>Was I wrong to let that guard live? Now, that he had Feitan's unhappy attention on him, he would be better off if I shot a needle through him.</p><p>“Still working as a prison screw?” I enquired.</p><p>“Part time. Out of necessity, you see. So, what brings you here?”</p><p>“I'm looking for a guy. Tall redhead, yellow eyes, ugly sagging sweater.”</p><p>“Hisoka,” Pakunoda nodded. “He's here, preparing for his Fight Club show.”</p><p>“What is the Fight Club exactly?”</p><p>“It is a ring where people fight.” She looked me in the eyes and emphasized: “To. The. Death. More often than not,” she added nonchalantly. “Also, a great spectacle. The visitors bid. The entry is costly. This is how this club finances itself.”</p><p>“And this is how we recruit new members,” Feitan chimed in.</p><p>“Hisoka wants to join the Troupe?” I asked.</p><p>“That he does.” Pakunoda motioned at me to tag along. As we walked, she continued: “One of ours proved to be a burden. He is a crypto-paedophile, likes to dress little girls as if they were dolls. We put up with it for as long as he kept his urges at bay. One day he created a mess and fled. By that time Hisoka made a name for himself in the Fight Club. We knew he was looking for an opportunity to join the Troupe. So, danchou told him 'Bring me my number 4's head, and you can take his place.' I assume he's still trying to figure out number 4's location. Meantime, he's enjoying himself in the ring. He has quite a following. People flock to watch him fight.”</p><p>We stopped in front of an inconspicuous entrance, leading to the lower grounds.</p><p>“Danchou took a liking to you.” Pakunoda locked one of my long stands behind my ear. Her touch was light, unlike her overall demeanour. “I can see why. Normally, the price for entry is steep. Nothing Zoldyck can't afford. But the boss wants you to feel welcomed. So, make yourself comfortable and enjoy the show. Drinks are on the house. Here's your Fight Club entry ticket. Bonolenov will show you to your lodge.”</p><p>I took the ticket – printed on a thick paper, coloured gold. The bandaged man led me downstairs, to the enormous space where the ring was – it sat in the very centre of the hall. I wasn't let to the main room but to the balcony. It offered a great view on the ring as well as the public. There were several lodges like mine and almost all were occupied. The armchair was comfortable, an old oak wood, red plush lining, very posh. A waiter showed up, a few colourful drinks on his tray. He put it on the small table next to me, bowed and left.</p><p>The crowd below was chanting. People hooted, excited in anticipation to see blood, broken bones, pulled out guts and pain. Above the ring hung big monitors, bundled together, for people sitting further back to enjoy every detail of the event. Here's Yorkshin folks whose safety you so much care for, Mizaistom. Why won't you feast your eyes on <em>this </em>one of these days, lieutenant?</p><p>“Ladies and gentlemen!” a female voice thundered from the loudspeakers. “In a moment begins the fight you were all waiting for. The Magician versus The Big Booba!” The screens flickered and displayed a 'Stand by' notification. The public roared. The lights went out, and the aflutter voices rose even higher. Two cones of light shined onto two silhouettes that appeared on the stage. Monitors flickered again and offered a closer look at the fighters.</p><p>One of them was lean and tall, his arms muscular despite the slim frame. You couldn't see his full silhouette, since he wore the silliest attire ever. A short white vest with card symbols, a pink tank top, long loose white pants and ridiculous boots with elongated tips. It was still an improvement from the ugly sagging sweaters I saw him wear. Hisoka's face was painted white, with a star on one cheek and a tear on another. His hair slicked to the back resembled a flame frozen in time. Golden eyes watched his opponent with delight.</p><p>The other man was far heavier and massive. His skin dark, his scalp decorated with dreadlocks falling over his broad shoulders. Booba had a trimmed beard, black and short. It underlined his strong jaw nice. He was only wearing short boxer's pants. Other than that, he was barefoot.</p><p>After the presentation all reflectors shone again. The sharp light killed every shadow that stood in the way of upcoming entertainment. Hisoka looked at the lodges, moving his gaze over the alcoves. The hall was huge, filled to the brim, yet he recognized me in a split second. Hand on a cocked hip, he waved to the crowd, but for me – he smiled a wide, toothy smile. The audience went frantic.</p><p>“Ladies and gentlemen, let the tussle begin!”</p><p>I leaned back on my chair, took a drink, and watched. At first the fighters were moving in circle, assessing one another. On TV, I could see both of their faces. 'You gonna die tonight, freak,' the one calling himself Big Booba said. 'Gonna break your foken spine, clown.' Hisoka smirked. I saw his lips moving: 'Oh, by all means, do try. But I need to warn you. I have a special pair of eyes on me tonight, so I'll be taking my time, tearing you to pieces.' He produced an elastic, rubbery piece of fabric from his pants' pocket. It was pink; the kind of pink that made you want to gouge your own eyes out. Hisoka slowly ran his tongue over his upper lip and invited, 'Shall we?'</p><p>They exchanged a couple of quick blows to probe the other's skill. It alone was enough to predict who had the win secured. Hisoka, true to his promise, toyed with Booba for quite some time. He avoided punches and kicks, made Booba believe he considered him a threat. Morow moved with grace, I had to give him that. Although he dragged this whole touch-me-not game, it was a nice view to behold. He ducked and hopped, and danced in the air, almost like a ballerina. In comparison, Booba's swipes seemed sluggish and blundering. Then, out of the blue, Hisoka's lissome performance turned into a massacre. I watched him rip Big Booba apart, exactly as he said, limb by limb. First, he broke his arm; grabbed it, strained it, and struck in the elbow from below. The audience squeaked in disgust mixed with exhilaration. Then he broke his leg, by kicking in the knee. It bent at an odd angle, much like his arm had previously. Next was the other arm, that one the Magician ripped out of the man. The limb flew into the howling public, the blood splashing all over overheated heads. Booba was barely holding together, swaying on his one good leg. Hisoka covered the man's face with the pink fabric. He moved his lips to Booba's ear, and I could read from them: 'Smile for my friend, Booba.'</p><p>Before his prey suffocated, Morow did something, that sent the public screaming wild. Some people stood up, holding their hair, some jumped in place as if they were holding pee. Hisoka retracted his left arm and then shoved it straight into the other man's back, cut through the flesh, and pulled his heart out. Big Booba lost. He dropped to his one knee and then onto his face, when Hisoka took his arm out of the man's chest. The pounding heart was still in the Magician's grip. He presented the blood-dripping organ to the ecstatic spectators, extended it my way, and blew me a kiss. Then, he dropped the heart to the floor. I could only imagine it landing with a wet plop in front of Booba's still opened, glazed over, shocked eyes.</p><p>Was I to be impressed? With a messy job like that? I could pull the heart out without letting a single droplet of blood hit the ground. Overall, it wasn't that bad of a show. I mused for a moment, sipping alcohol from my glass. Mr. Morow was definitely not the Headsman.</p><p>“Who would have thunk it. The Magician won again,” the voice in loudspeakers said, cutting through 'Ma-gi-cian! Ma-gi-cian!' chants below. “Thank you for being with us, ladies and gents. You are welcome to see the next fights tomorrow. And don't forget the rule.”</p><p>“YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB!” the hall and the announcer roared in unison, as if they were one monstrous being. In a way, they were. The hall shook from claps and whistles, and excited voices, as spectators moved to exits.</p><p>I had a few more drinks on my tray; besides I was sure I would see Hisoka in a moment. And I was not mistaken.</p><p>“You followed me,” he said, when he manifested in my alcove, a stool in one hand and a drink in another. He refreshed himself. Not a trace of blood. Morow was wearing his sagging sweater again. It hid bruises and cuts Big Booba sold him before he died. “It hurts to learn Kurapika allowed it. He still doesn't trust me. How did you like the performance?”</p><p>“You don't know how to properly pull the heart out,” I informed matter-of-factly.</p><p>Hisoka tossed his head back and laughed. When he collected himself, he said: “They let you here and offered the best viewing spot. I assume you already know what my goal with the Troupe is. You believe me now, when I say I have no interest in beheading strangers?”</p><p>“Yes. I also take back my offer.” He lifted his brow, so I clarified: “I don't owe you anything for the alibi you provided yesterday. Since it was you who tipped Kurapika off, I should feed you needles right here and right now. Maybe <em>you</em> owe <em>me</em> for my kindness.”</p><p>“Oh, so you realized.” He smirked. “But <em>my</em> offer still stands.” He placed slim fingers on his chest in an attempt to look feeble. “I'm not observed day and night; I can go wherever I want. Let me be your friend, Illumi.”</p><p>“I don't need friends, Morow.”</p><p>“Okay then, let's be traders. With a man of your skill and status I only trade for favours. Can never have enough of those. You need me any time, for <em>anything</em>, let me know.”</p><p>I considered this proposition in silence, when I saw a white mop of hair moving in the crowd. It was not as messy as Kill's, but it got my mind on my brother. Where was he? Damn, I craved to know.</p><p>“Is something bugging you?” Hisoka asked.</p><p>“Knov's surveillance,” I said absent-mindedly.</p><p>The Magician traced his eyes to where my attention drifted to. “Is he more your type?”</p><p>“No. He reminds me of someone I haven't seen in a long time.”</p><p>“Well, there you have it: a need I may be able to fulfil.”</p><p>“It's strange how eager you are to do my bidding, Hisoka,” I noticed.</p><p>“How should I put it into words?” The Magician ran his fingers through his slicked-up hair. “I like you, Illumi. The moment I saw you, I knew I'd <em>love</em> to fight you.”</p><p>“I wouldn't engage you even if I wasn't on Mizaistom's short leash,” I said. “I utilize my skills for professional purposes <em>only</em>. I don't derive the pleasure you do from liquidating others.”</p><p>“There are other pleasures for us to indulge in.”</p><p>“No,” I said.</p><p>Hisoka hummed, looked at my drink, and carried on: “You are making it harder than must be, Illumi. I'm being polite. Yet, there are other means. Someone else would get you drunk. Someone else would drug you and take you rough while you're out.”</p><p>“Two minutes. Is this worth the risk?” I asked. “About this much time it takes for my metabolism to remove toxins from my system. Let alone something as banal as alcohol. I trained to withstand many hardships, Hisoka. I would sober up before 'someone else' had a chance to feel anything but my fingers inside his eye sockets.”</p><p>He sighed, resigned. “Then let's stop at favours. Anything you want done?”</p><p>I battled with myself for a moment. Morow gawked at me. Having learned Hisoka's secret, he didn't seem as big of a threat any more. That supposition, as it later turned out, couldn't be further from the truth. But I didn't know it then and I missed Kill.</p><p>“Fine,” I said. “It's about my brother. I only know he's somewhere in Yorkshin. I want to know what he is up to. If you are able to find him for me, I can place a tracker on him. That is all I need.”</p><p>“What kind of Spider would I be, if I weren't able to get intel on a person who is not even hiding. Describe your brother, and I'll look around.” I did, and then he said: “Well, aren't you lucky today? A boy like that catches the eye. He often comes with another boy to Wobbly's Clinic.”</p><p>The Wobbly's Clinic for mental patients. This is where we moved Alluka. It made sense that Kill would go there. He developed a certain amount of empathy for this failed brother of ours. Another boy accompanied him? Looked like Kill didn't give up on his absurd longing for friendship.</p><p>“So now, that we know where to find him, you better put your hands on some tech,” Hisoka said. “Unless you want to leave it to me?”</p><p>“No.” I shook my head at the recollection of the messy heart pull-out. “It must be me who will place the bug, otherwise he'll notice.”</p><p>“If you insist. You know how to change appearances?”</p><p>I let a snort loose. “I've been wearing different skins more times than you know.”</p><p>“It shouldn't be a problem then. Eager to hear me out?”</p><p>I leaned in and brushed his hand off my inner thigh. “You can talk, but you can't touch,” I warned.</p><p>“You have such a way with words, I can only obey,” he cooed. “So, listen up…”</p><p>The plan was simple – to approach Killua under disguise. It had to be something inconspicuous. Pairo and his blindness came to mind. I could replicate the way he moved his stick. If I took an appearance of an old, blind man, I could bump into Kill 'by coincidence.' And my little brother would be none the wiser.</p><p>I wanted it done as soon as possible, and that meant the next day. I knew the clinic had a secret records room meant for high-profile clients. They were discreet like that, that's why Silva and Kikyo placed Alluka there. Here's how you kill two birds with one stone. You check on your brother, while telling Kurapika you want to sneak into Wobbly's secret room. Chances were, they had something on Tserriednich or his family. Needless to say, then I'd have to do both things. But I <em>was</em> expected to work on finding evidence against Tserriednich. So, there you have it. Something told me it would work like a charm. Not to mention, my heart sang at the mere promise of seeing Kill again.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, I informed Kurapika my assumption about Hisoka was wrong. Kurta knew it, of course, but everybody likes to hear they were correct, and you were wrong. Kurta was no different. After assuring him my mind was entirely on Tserriednich, I went straight to business. Told him it was about time we visited the prince's gallery. But prior to that, I wanted to check Wobbly's Clinic secret records. I couldn't just flap my tongue about how they kept top-secret medical files of some of their patients. My family entrusted my brother to them. So, I was meandering, trying to explain what I was on about. There are certain benefits of working with a brilliant mind like Kurapika's. Once he decided to step into murky waters, he didn't ask unnecessary questions. He knew that by employing me, he agreed to dubious means and shifty approaches. And so, he let me go under condition that I'd keep the tracker on. Why of course, detective. I could always turn it off if I needed.</p><p>Speaking of gadgets, in Milluki's box I found the right thing for the mission. It was a tracker with a small radar thing, the size of a watch. I could see my target's location on it. But it was so much more than that. It had a wire-tapping, although that's not the best term for it. It was a voice intercepting device. It came with a separate miniature box I could place on the night stand and listen-in to Kill's conversations for as long as the bug was on him somewhere.</p><p>As a token of goodwill, I presented myself to Knuckle and Shoot in my old man's disguise. Went even so far, as to ask Kurapika if he had a spare white cane I could borrow. He did have one and he lent it to me. It took me an hour and a half to put my make-up and characterization right. Dressed in a dirty old coat, a grey hat eaten by moths, big sun-glasses covering half of my face, I walked to the Wobbly's. Had to get a feel for my cane. When you are working in disguise, it's good to move about to check how people react to you. Apparently, my disguise was more than convincing. A woman even offered me help to cross the street.</p><p>Wobbly's Clinic was a big white building with a few annexes, sitting in the middle of a large park. The park was opened for all. Except for the part meant only for patients and their families. It was doctor Wing's idea that healthy people should visit the place, even if only to walk their dog. This way patients could feel part of the outside world by their proxy.</p><p>Hisoka waited for me near the main gate as we agreed. His back rested against a concrete wall. The ugly sweater out of sight, hidden under a coat the colour of coffee with milk. He was busy shuffling a deck of cards. His jaw was moving, a pink bubble protruded from his mouth, popped, and his jaw was moving again. I knocked on the wall with the cane. A loud clicking mixed with the birds' tweets coming from the trees on the other side of the gate. Hisoka's yellow gazed ran over me, uninterested, and went back to the cards. I had all reasons to believe I'd trick Killua as well.</p><p>Morow blew out another bubble and let it linger there. I moved faster, right in time to burst it for him.</p><p>“Is Kill there?” I asked in my usual monotone.</p><p>“I'll be damned!” Hisoka gasped theatrically and eyeballed me up and down, astonished. “Is this the same man I tossed myself off to last night?”</p><p>“I couldn't care less whose image you wank off to.” Still in the role of a senile geezer, I moved past the gate, slightly bent, one arm on my lower back, taking care of my old bones. “Do you think any of them will recognize you?”</p><p>“I'm afraid so.” Hisoka hid the cards in his coat's inner pocket and joined me. “They are here right now. Your brother was somewhere that direction last time I saw him.” He pointed towards Wobbly's Clinic building. Being one of the Zoldycks, Kill could access the out-of-bounds area.</p><p>We moved closer but kept our distance. It was my brother all right. Both brothers in fact. And then there was that boy, Gon. Kill and his 'friend' sat on the bench. They were watching Alluka play in the sandpit in front of them, on the other side of the alley.</p><p>“I need Kill to run into me,” I informed. “What would be their reaction if they saw you?”</p><p>Hisoka hummed. “They'd run the other way.”</p><p>“Let's approach them from the opposite directions. You start from there.” I pointed to the left from the boys. To the right was the area passers-by couldn't enter. That was where Kill would be headed, if he wanted to avoid the redhead's attention. That would be from where I'd be dragging my aged bones forwards. With a bit of luck, Kill would trip me over!</p><p>The operation went smooth. I emerged on the alley, tapping my cane. Hisoka manifested on the other end, still far, but my brother noticed him in the blink of an eye. My hand moved to my coat's pocket and closed on the tracker. The instant boys saw Hisoka, they got up. As expected, they moved my way. I stepped to the left when Kill turned his head. One moment later he dived nose deep into my old rags.</p><p>“Uh, oh!” I cried in a haggard voice, waving my walking stick about.</p><p>“Oh, so sorry, sir!” That was the other boy, Gon. “Are you alright?”</p><p>I clenched my fingers, holding to my dear brother's arms. Just an old man who was afraid to fall, never to get up again. He held me firm and helped me up in a rushed motion. Gasping and huffing, I placed the bug on the rim of his shirt, on the underside.</p><p>“Oh-oh, it's nothing, it's nothing.” I took a loud inhale, coughed a dry cough, and pressed a trembling hand to my chest. I proceeded shakily towards the nearest bench. “I'm fine, I'm fine. You go on, boys. Don't mind me,” I slurred.</p><p>“Come <em>on</em>, Alluka,” Killua demanded, his tone nervous, impatient.</p><p>“Kay,” Alluka, or at that point Nanika, replied, and toddled after them.</p><p>Hisoka passed me, paying no mind to the old human wreck chugging on the bench, and followed the boys. After that he was to return to headquarters. When they all vanished from my sight, I fished out the radar and the eavesdropping instrument. Had to check if everything worked fine. I could see Kill moving on the watch-like device on my wrist. Next was the small box. I started it and plugged one earpiece in my ear.</p><p>“…amn creep. Why is he here so often?!” I heard Kill's voice, loud and clear.</p><p>“You can ask doctor Wing,” the other boy said. “Hisoka's here for him. Once, I saw Wing give him some books. Maybe he's taking lessons?”</p><p>“I'm fed up with this. I'mma talk to him and tell him to buzz off!”</p><p>Kill. Hot-headed as always. Will that ever change?</p><p>“Give it up, Killua. He's not worth it. Hey, Alluka, come, let's play in the sand!”</p><p>“At least he won't get here. This place is closed for outsiders. Go, Nanika, have some fun.”</p><p>“Kay.”</p><p>“I didn't want to be nosy, so haven't asked before, but how can you tell Alluka from Nanika?” Gon inquired.</p><p>“Alluka is talkative. Nanika is rather silent and says 'Kay' instead of 'Okay.' She also calls me and my siblings by the name, whereas Alluka refers to us as big brothers, mum, dad, and so forth.” Kill sighed. I heard a ruffle, as if he combed his own or his brother's hair.</p><p>“How can two people occupy one body?” I heard Gon's amazed voice.</p><p>Kill snorted. It was not a happy sound. Far from it.</p><p>“It takes failing the Zoldyck training program.” Kill played with some toys. I heard the rustling of the sand, before he spoke again: “Every Zoldyck goes through a harsh training, bordering torture sessions. It was too much for Alluka, though. He couldn't take it. They broke him. His mind snapped, and he developed this…” He searched for the right words. “'Slipped' personality disorder. Or was it 'split'?”</p><p>“What does it mean?”</p><p>“It means that the trauma my folks unleashed upon my brother split his mind in two. When he's Alluka, he's like his old self. But sometimes, usually under stress, he becomes Nanika. Nanika is a girl, and she is really creepy. Nanika has some super-powers, you know? Doctor Wing calls it 'savant syndrome'. She has a photographic memory, can memorize and replicate <em>everything</em> she saw. She can read two books at a time so fast; you have no idea! And she can count huge numbers in her head. She's a genius.”</p><p>“Wow!” Gon exclaimed.</p><p>“I'm afraid” - my brother continued - “one day my family will learn how to manipulate her state of mind. That's the very reason they locked Alluka in here. Oh yeah, they are thinking hard how to further abuse him, all right. Especially Illumi. My brother doesn't like things to go to waste. I'm pretty sure he won't rest until he figures out how to make Nanika beneficial for the business.”</p><p>Oh Kill, you know me so well. There is no denying it – Alluka was a failed assassin. Too weak to withstand our training program. But Nanika... with her unique qualities our business could strive to expand catalogue of services. I will put my mind to it another time.</p><p>“I still envy you, Killua,” Gon said. “At least you have family that cares for you. I can't say the same about myself.”</p><p>“You have aunt Mito.”</p><p>“And a father who runs away from me!” Gon's voice hitched.</p><p>“You don't know what you're talking about. My family is nothing like a normal one. Look what they did to their own blood,” Killua said softly, but Gon reacted harshly:</p><p>“No, it is you who doesn't understand. You don't realize what you have, until you've lost it! I…” He sobbed. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–.”</p><p>“It's okay.” Kill whispered, some white noise disruption in the background for a moment. “We will find Ging. Come now. It's okay.”</p><p>“Kay,” Nanika joined in, her dull voice distant.</p><p>What I heard got me thinking. Could it be, that this boy wasn't as useless as I first thought? I could use him to knock some sense into Kill. Gon seemed to realize the value of family. It was enough of eavesdropping for the time being, though. I needed to make ready for my next objective.</p><p>When I was looking around the park, I noticed someone who definitely should be visiting there often – Palm Siberia. She was smoking and talking to a nurse. The nurse handed her some pills. They chatted some more, before Palm turned to walk away. It didn't escape my attention that she trashed her meds in the bin before she left the park. That explained a lot.</p><p>The Wobbly's Clinic and its surroundings didn't change much from the last time I visited there. The only new thing was a small chapel situated away from the main building, near the back gate to the park. I went there to have a glimpse. The chapel's founder was Light Nostrade. One of many wealthy patrons of the mental institution.</p><p>I manifested myself back at headquarters and got ready for the break-in during the night. I found myself listening-in to Kill's conversation every free moment I had. Even if nothing was happening, I had the Milluki's miracle device on. Most of their talks was usual boys' prattle. Even so, it felt nice to hear my brother's voice resonating in the empty room. With this and the radar, I knew exactly where he was. I knew what he said. I knew what he ate, I could tell he was spending too much money on sweets. Hell, I even knew when he took a dump. In his letter Milluki explained the spying device was a prototype. I should expect it to malfunction or break down any time (and to let him know about the circumstances if it happens). Still, father underappreciated Milluki's skill with electronics. I made a mental note to tell him that on my return home.</p><p>In the dead of night, I set out to perform my little break-in into the Clinic's secret room. In truth, you could hardly call it that. I knew the room's location, and as a family of one of the patients, I had the code to open the lock. I only had to do it without attracting anyone's attention. It was a piece of cake. Nobody saw me. Had no trouble sneaking past nurses and doctors who were dozing off on their night shift. It didn't bother me that the security was so lax. It was not necessary, since the door to the records was well hidden. Should I not know about it beforehand, I would have a hard time finding it. And even harder time opening the electronic lock. I entered and left without alarming anyone, carrying photos of Hui Guo Rous files I found.</p><p>It appeared Tserriednich's grandmother was diagnosed a psychopath. She was in Wobbly's for several years, before they deemed her incurable. She was then moved to the high-security mental institution somewhere in Kakin. Also found something about Tserriednich himself. The prince landed in Wobbly's at an age of four for observation. He was showing some signs of his grandmother's genes waking up in him. It was about animals then. Seemed like the prince liked to abuse them. He was through an electric shocks therapy. They prescribed him psychotropic drugs. Doctor's note: must be taken for lifetime for lasting effect. And then they signed him out. My guess was the prince discarded his meds at some point. He trashed them, much like Palm did, and look what happened.</p><p>Especially one entry caught my interest; so much in fact, I made five photos of it. The 4-year-old psycho liked dismembering animals. He stabbed their bodies, burned tails, broke bones, but heads – those he left intact. If it wasn't a strong evidence for the court, then I don't know what was. The only difficulty Kurta faced was to explain how he came into possession of that info. His problem, not mine. Once I had these photos processed in a darkroom, Kurapika would surely give me many hugs.</p><p>On my way out of the Wobbly's main building, I became a witness of an unusual situation. It must have been some law of negative attraction. First, I saw a shadow dashing in a distance. The shadow was lean, long-haired and wore a long coat. It zipped in front of my eyes and disappeared. A few seconds later a strong explosion shook the earth. It came from the chapel's general direction. The building Nostrade founded was ablaze.</p><p>The clinic's workers soon were running with buckets of water to and fro. They attempted to at least prevent the fire from reaching more trees. Five minutes later fire-fighters arrived and put the flames down. Another twenty minutes passed when Morel and Kite showed up. By that time many onlookers gathered to watch the events unfold.</p><p>“For crying out loud,” Morel commented, expression worn. “Another Nostrade's property went to hell. You better keep that nose to the ground until you find something, Kite. And what are you doing here, Yellmi?”</p><p>“I was on a secret mission for Kurapika,” I admitted.</p><p>“I don't suppose you saw anything out of the ordinary before the fire started?” he asked, not much hope in his voice.</p><p>“I might have.” I could sense Morel's intense stare on me, even if I didn't see his eyes hidden behind small shades. “It's nothing big, but I saw someone escaping from the chapel a few seconds before the explosion. Pretty sure it was a woman.”</p><p>"A woman,” he repeated, scratching his head with his pipe's mouthpiece. “Have you seen how she looked like?”</p><p>“It was dark. Didn't see much. She was tall and slim, long hair. That's all I can tell you.”</p><p>“Huh,” he mused. “That’s more than I had a moment ago.” Morel cheered up and poked me on the shoulder. He liked doing that.</p><p>Then Kite rose in front of me, slim like a sleepless birch tree, and said in a stern, deep, shaky voice. It almost felt like he was reading my fortune from a crystal ball: “You will show me where you saw the shadow run.” He turned, froze, and turned back again to add: “When I'm done here.”</p><p>I agreed and nodded my head like a good boy.</p><p>We watched as the skinny technician crawled around the scorched remnants of what used to be a pretty nice chapel. A camera with a big flash was hanging from his neck. Kite stopped whenever he noticed anything he deemed valuable. He made photographs and swept dust into clean baggies. He was picking up burned pieces of who-knows-what. It all ended up in the evidence box. Out of the sudden I heard him shout:</p><p>“Don't let these vultures near until I'm done!”</p><p>By which he meant reporters. A chain of cops separated them and onlookers from us. I moved my eyes over the faces, and soon enough I saw one reporter jumping up and down. Her significant bust waved along, as she tried to have a glimpse or take a picture. Her big eyes seemed even bigger behind large round glasses. She had a mid-length dark hair, an inverted cross gleamed on her black shirt. Her name was Shizuku Murasaki, and she worked for The Yorkshin Tribune. I recognized her immediately. As for Shizuku, she had no clue I knew where her true allegiance laid.</p><p>This was not the first time I saw her on the crime scene. The first time was five years ago. My client asked to take the target down in a public place, midday, for everyone to see his fall. When the job was done, I stayed for a while to make sure the kill received as much publicity as the client hoped for. I watched from afar, from a good vantage point, using a spyglass. That was when I saw her. She was jumping, much like she jumped in front of the scorched chapel. At one point her shirt lifted to reveal a spider tattoo on her hip. Chrollo’s tactical skill almost matched my grandpa's. Looked like there was not a place in Yorkshin that wasn't tangled in his web by now.</p><p>Among the onlookers, much to my delight, I spotted a silver-haired shorty with a pale face and big blue gems of eyes. Kill was spying on the situation. Our gazes met. He even sported the beginnings of the smirk he so often gave me when we quarrelled. I adored that smirk. Were Kill more attentive, he would stop smiling like that when he aimed to be mean to me. I could only guess my empty expression was at fault. As if he expected anything but it after such a long time of no see. Didn't he realize he was the apple of my eye? He always will be. It didn't have to show on my face. But he seemed clueless. He had no idea how exhilarated I was seeing him bunched with all the strangers outside the site of fire.</p><p>Kill nodded to me, ever so slightly. I nodded back, ever so slightly. I could see his lips moving: 'Come on, Gon. Let's scram.' And just like that, he vanished in the crowd.</p><p>I put my fedora on and bent my head to hide a little smirk of my own. No point running away from me, Kill. As long as Milluki's prototype works, I am aware of your every step and every word you say. Even if it breaks down, big brother will find a way to keep an eye on you. <em>Always</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Little Prince and his mince</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was early morning. I stood on the balcony, watching Yorkshin's prettier side. The young sun shone on the soaked streets. Raindrops sparkled here and there like tiny diamonds. The rain fell overnight – it came and went silently, like a thief, to everyone's surprise. Everyone's but mine. A coffee mug cupped in my hands, an earpiece in my ear, I was eavesdropping on my brother the whole night. The boys had quite a heated argument, so I wasn't the only one losing sleep. I only started getting used to that tech, but it already felt like a habit.</p><p>Even though boys seemed inseparable, some bad blood cumulated between them. It was not hard to figure out their goal. Apparently Gon was hell-bent on finding his father, Ging. Kill offered to aid him in this quest. More often than not, they quarrelled. A conflict of perspectives. Kill wasn't too fond of our family's ways, or should I say, he was in denial, confused. Whereas Gon, not having any real family to speak of, didn't share his sentiment. Killua was already learning the rough side of redundant attachments. Give it some time, and he would end this whole farce with his own hands.</p><p>A knock at my door. I turned off Milluki's device and put it on my night stand, next to Kalluto's paper dolls. I closed the balcony and went to see who came to visit. It was Palm.</p><p>“Your request has been approved,” she said in a dull voice and dangled a key in front of my face. Then she showed me her back, walked to the stairs, and started climbing them up. The secretary swayed her hips in an exaggerated fashion, her one hand up, holding a lit cigarette. Its glowing tip, like a beacon among wavy strands of nicotine fumes. Palm had a fine figure, I had to grant her that. Even so, it was no reason to move like she was forcing her way through an overgrown marsh.</p><p>We reached the highest storey and stopped in front of the door to the roof. The secretary trapped the smoke between her teeth and turned the key inside the lock. She opened the door and stepped aside. The morning chill air punched me in the face. I extended my hand for Palm to drop the key on it. She did.</p><p>“Thanks,” I said.</p><p>“Knov prepared a gift for you there,” she informed tonelessly, so I stepped outside.</p><p>Near the entrance stood something tall, covered with a black, slippery oilcloth. I yanked the cloth off, mindful not to wet what was under it. A three-legged stand, and on it – a monstrous spyglass. I studied it for a while. It wasn't half bad. Not bad at all. I was almost impressed. Professional equipment always brings joy to the heart. On the ground laid also binoculars. Knov even thought of getting me a soft stool. I guess, if you were as busy as he was, you had to read people's minds. It was not that hard to imagine, why I wanted to get on the rooftops in the first place.</p><p>“He is gone again,” Palm grumbled wistfully, pacing back and forth behind me.</p><p>Busy checking what my new tool was capable of, I didn't respond to her. What is one supposed to do with information like that? Was it a warning that Yorkshin would witness another arson because Palm felt lonely? I couldn't care less.</p><p>Instead, I played with the lenses. The telescope had night vision. Top-notch equipment. Only needed to reposition it, to better see the entire Tserriednich's building. That could wait however. From where it stood then, I was able to see top floors. Enough to run a small test. Someone left a toilet room window opened wide. I could see the décor of the inside. Every tiny detail. Blue and white tiles, walls painted pastel yellow. Wooden cabins painted white, with brass door handles; some floral lines carved there. Two people inside – a man on a woman. They supported the wall opposite the window, groping each other furiously. The pair blocked the door with a mop – blue and white straps – so that nobody could intrude. They wore casual clothes, so they weren't the staff. More like visitors, getting all worked up after delving into the prince's acquired tastes in art. I closed in on the girl. She had a silver pendant with initials engraved on it: H x H; hers or someone else's. Maybe his. Excellent spyglass, great sharpness. Very stable stand, too. I even forgot about Palm's existence for a while. That is, until she began bellyaching again:</p><p>“He's never here,” she wailed.</p><p>Before you could say knife, I felt her hand run over my butt. It jutted out a little, as I was looking through the telescope. I straightened my back and asked, not looking at her:</p><p>“Is there anything else, Miss Siberia?”</p><p>“Are you always so cold?” she snapped at me reproachfully. Her brows knitted together. Nicotine smoke escaped her nostrils when she puffed with ire. A petite bull.</p><p>“Hate to break it to you,” I confirmed.</p><p>Palm 'humfed', raised her chin, pouted her lips, and tossed me a disdainful look. “Boys and their toys!” She snorted some more smoke out, and off she went.</p><p>I threw the black cover back over the telescope, taking a liking to the place already.</p><p>The moment I entered my room, I sensed something was off. The balcony stood opened; curtains fluttered in the wind. Pretty sure I closed it before leaving. I scanned the place and found the culprit. On my night stand, next to the radio, the eavesdropping device, and the collection of Kalluto's dolls, there sat an item that wasn't there a few minutes ago. It was an origami – a neatly put together needle. It rested against an envelope. I lifted the envelope and flipped it to check the other side. It was secured with a maroon pentagram seal.</p><p>Another assignment from father. Seemed like Mr. Nostrade got fed up with Pariston's inapt law enforcement machinery. Flames consumed his two estates. The arsonist was still running free. And so, he reached out to a more competent party. I raised my brows again. This was not a work for a hit-man. After all, we were assassins and not a private investigation bureau with an audacity to kill. Dad got my curiosity covered, though. He explained, he wanted to refuse such a job at first. Nevertheless, since I worked so close with the police now, he decided to take a stab at it. Nostrade knew we were only giving it a shot. No promises. If we managed to honour the contract, he would pony up triple the dough we asked for a standard hit. I was not to stress over it. Should the assignment stand in the way of my involvement in the Headsman case, I was to drop it and forget about it. Honestly? I saw no reasons not to accept it.</p><p>I reached for my lighter and watched flames destroy the message. It looks like your time is almost up, Palm.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The day to look Tserriednich in the face had come. I was pretty sure we were right on the money about him being the Headsman. Yet, there remained one little thing I wanted to try. You see, the prince was a wealthy and powerful man. It was certain as day follows night, that the evidence of his guilt had to be further strengthened by forgery. It couldn't be half-arsed, done cheap, nor left to an amateur. If Kurapika wanted to get it right, I had to knock on the right door. Or tug the right cobweb string, would be a more accurate way to phrase it. I knew one of Chrollo's Spiders to be an exceptionally talented forger. He knew how to get someone destroyed by planting the right item, in the right place, at the right time. Chrollo himself was a mastermind with understanding of Yorkshin like no other. And much like the Zoldycks, the Troupe's help wasn't exactly cheap. I aimed to snoop around the gallery, for a chance of uncovering what else Tserriednich was hiding. Wealthy people liked to keep their treasures close to their heart. And the prince loved his gallery. He near moved there, if rumours were to be believed. I said it once and I'll say it again: information is gold. I found his dragon's nest, and I could trade that info to Spiders to kindle their interest in further cooperation. That had to wait until Kurapika called, though.</p><p>I had some free time at my disposal, so I went to the archives. A good moment to start thinking how to deal with Palm. First, I checked the record of her deeds. I scooped through news reports on arsons, from the most recent ones to the oldest. There appeared to be no greater theme to her actions. Except for one thing. Until now, she targeted real estates that weren't inhabited. Forgotten buildings or investments that were forever waiting for their comeback – like Nostrade's 'Circus' hotel. There were no casualties reported. The fires broke out in random places and started occurring more often only recently. The chapel constituted the first construction she burned that was in use. I wondered if Knov suspected what his negligence of Palm's needs put in motion.</p><p>It intrigued me that she destroyed two Nostrade properties in a row. Maybe Palm had some reason for it. I had a good look at the chapel, but the hotel – of that I would appreciate a close-up. Or of what was left of it. The hotel used to be situated in NGL district. No wonder it stood abandoned for years. Judging by photographs in the papers, it had been an immense construction. Some annexes made it through the huge firestorm. Decided to stroll there after visit to the gallery.</p><p>Speaking of which, my one-armed guardian of sorrow, Shoot, appeared, to pass me a word from Kurapika. He wanted me ready in the lab in half an hour. I said fine, and went there, making a short stop by the canteen.</p><p>In the lab, 'The Crazy Sloths' were gazing happily, for a change. Not a shadow of dread about them. They had competition. Kite, Leorio and Colt stood in a circle around a young-looking woman. She also proved to be enough to fill the entire lab with a sense of doom. The girl wore a rather elegant set, nothing you expected an addict would wear. A dark blue long jacket with large buttons and orange shorts. Apart from cat's ears on top of her head, and a cat's tail sticking out from the back of her pants, one could call her presentable. Kite was busy, taking a swab from her mouth. The girl sat in one position, motionless, almost petrified. Yet, her face had a blissful expression, even if a tad absent.</p><p>“Why are they considering themselves ants?” Leorio asked. “This one wears cat's ears. The guy yesterday pretended to be a butterfly. Yet, they all think of themselves ants. I don't get it.”</p><p>“Don't strain your braincells, doc,” Colt said. “It's the dope talking. You're looking for logic where there is none.”</p><p>Kite secured the mouth swab in a transparent plastic vessel. Then he took a needle to get a blood sample.</p><p>“So, whatcha got on this whole 'Chimera'?” Leorio inquired.</p><p>“It's an interesting thing,” Colt replied. “The base for the new drug is an old one that has been in Yorkshin before Netero decided to grow his beard. 'Chimera' is just a modification of it. I've asked several recovered junkies. It seems, they all got the new dope from one person. A young girl is peddling it. She's sometimes seen with a blue hair, sometimes pink. She claims to be clairvoyant, and whoever eats 'Chimera' has a chance to share her powers. That's why they all are getting ready for the coming of the ant king. If they are not becoming one, that is.”</p><p>“If you know how she looks, why isn't she jailed yet?”</p><p>“None of the junkies can recall her features.” Colt scratched his chin. “Though I am under impression they <em>don't want</em> to recall it, is more like it. As if they feared something. Or someone.”</p><p>“So, you say one person is causing all that trouble?” Leorio moved the unlit cig in the corner of his mouth up and down. It wouldn't surprise me, if he developed a unique muscle there by now.</p><p>“This is what he said,” Kite chimed in and stuck the needle in the Cat's Ears arm.</p><p>The girl came back to life, ever so lazily, looked dreamily at the ceiling, and said with a languid drawl:</p><p>“I'll kiiill youuu.” She swayed on her stool to the rhythm only her cat's ears could hear. She stuck her hands between her crossed legs, her shoulders curled. Cat's Ears appeared unaware of the technician taking her blood. Only when he removed the needle, she glared at him. “I'll rip your head off,” she announced in a voice that was anything but hostile. It sounded almost tender.</p><p>“Of course, Miss Neferpitou.” Kite didn't seem worried about those empty threats. Not a single bit. “For the ant king. I get it, I get it.” Such a calm man. He would be good with kids.</p><p>“Ah, there you are.” Kurapika greeted our bunch with his scarlet eyes. “I'll get one thing from the doc, and we are on our way, Yellmi.”</p><p>And so, he and Leorio vanished in the doctor's office. Colt saw Neferpitou to her cell. Kite wandered off to the other lab to further process the collected material. In the lab there was only me, 'The Crazy Sloths' and a couple of Kite's students. I walked to the exit door, taking my time, when I stumbled upon Mr. Morow coming back from the canteen.</p><p>“Good morning, detective.” He smiled an artificial, creepy smile. “Heard you've been a witness to another arson. It must be some rule of <em>hot</em> attraction.”</p><p>I ignored his attempt at being cute. Hoped against all hope that if I keep meeting him with the wall of my utter disinterest, he'd let go of hitting on me. To change the subject, I asked:</p><p>“Who was that shorty you talked to in front of the bakery you stopped by on your way to Wiggle Tussle two days back?”</p><p>Hisoka's face became an embodiment of annoyance. He groaned an unhappy groan, as if I stabbed him in a rib with a cold poker.</p><p>“She's a nut job,” he said.</p><p>Look who's talking – I thought but kept listening.</p><p>“I don't know who she is, other than she must have rich parents.”</p><p>“What gives?”</p><p>“The way she walks and talks. She has that 'saviour of the poorest' mindset. She is convinced her fake fortune telling is helping people to struggle through hardships of existence. And if not prophecies than uplifting chems. She offers both. And as you may well see” - he spread his arms, then raked his fingers through red curls - “I'm irresistible. That girl clings to me for some reason. Even though, lately I'm being rather blunt about how I'll break her bones if she doesn't stop.”</p><p>“Hmm…” I mused to myself, when the door to Leorio's office opened, and Kurapika emerged.</p><p>“Ready to set out?” he asked and gave Hisoka a nod. It was a formal nod, polite was all you could call it. Still, one could hardly miss a chill in the air from the way Kurta's reddened eyes scrutinized the redhead. Hisoka did not mind that and sold Kurapika a wanton sigh.</p><p>“I'm ready.” From behind my trench, I fished out the binoculars Knov left for me on the roof. “Let's pay the prince a visit.”</p><p> </p><p>Outside the police main station waited Shoot and Knuckle.</p><p>“Are you going to propose, princess?” my guardian angel of fury sneered at me.</p><p>“When we are there” - I said, giving the smart-ass no mind - “I'd like to circle the building from a distance, before we enter.”</p><p>“The gallery not enough palace for you?” Knuckle asked.</p><p>“Leave it, Knucks,” Kurapika said, his tone light. “Let's see where Yellmi's nose will lead us.”</p><p>Knuckle let out a non-committal noise. “Oh, hell,” he grumbled. “I like Hui Guo Rou's face even less than his,” he said that as if I weren't walking right next to him.</p><p>“Rou sure is suspicious,” Kurapika agreed.</p><p>Shoot was silent and concentrated on his inner worry. Blessed be the silent ones.</p><p>We passed three streets and made a wide circle around the gallery. The binoculars proved as good as the spyglass. From where I stood, I could see only ground and first floor. I checked corridors, getting a general feel of the inside. With a bit of luck, I should notice something that didn't match to the whole. And the moment I thought it, I saw the prince himself. Well, I saw his back, but you couldn't mistake him for anyone else. A tall man, his posture straight, his head up, used to look down on people. He wore a black suit, and some fancy cape that covered only his right shoulder. Tserriednich ran a finger along the wall as he walked down the corridor. Few people do that, unless their walls are precious indeed. Or rather that what's hidden behind them. Well, it wasn't much, but it was a start. And then, there is this game, Hot and Cold. I hoped the prince would partake, even if not voluntarily.</p><p>“All right,” I said. “Let's get inside.”</p><p>The inside was spacious, dripping with splendour, illuminated by countless expensive chandeliers. Mirrors in silver frames, sculptures, custom-made furniture, gilded upholsteries, lavish tapestries, decorative fabrics, red carpets, brass curtain rods. The only thing missing was a throne, a crown, and a sceptre. One truly wouldn't be wrong to call it a palace. The gallery opened for visitors occupied two floors, plus the ground floor. Kurta announced us in advance, so the boys didn't have to wave their badges. The staff let us through into the main hall where the first paintings hung. Or rather something that belonged to a museum of aftermaths of torture sessions. And there stood the prince, admiring his collection.</p><p>He surveyed us as we approached, his expression exasperated. Tserriednich had blue eyes, a mid-length hair the colour of old gold, and a somewhat unkempt beard. That beard destroyed everything. Were it not for his posh garments, one might have mistaken him for a bum.</p><p>“What is it now?” he complained in a tone of a bored royalty. “Why are you bothering me, detective? Haven't we sorted it out the last time your men assaulted my sanctuary?”</p><p>“Not here to question you, sir,” Kurapika replied. “Today we are here only to enjoy your collection, if that's allowed.”</p><p>“Not an issue.” Tserriednich's gaze lingered on me. Something sparkled in blue eyes. “And you? I don't think I've seen you before. Are you a new Mizaistom's dog?”</p><p>“Hardly; I am only assisting.”</p><p>“Lacking manners, like the rest of them.” He wrinkled his nose and motioned at me like a prince would. I stepped closer. “If only Hill paid you low-lives enough to learn some etiquette.” He said that, but from the intimidating way he eyeballed me, I could tell he saw something he liked. I felt broken and beheaded from his intense regard alone. “You would make a decent model.”</p><p>I moved my eyes up, to where a painting hung. A lady-like figure in a black dress. Her body torn by many little hooks stuck in her porcelain skin.</p><p>“You want to earn some on the side?” the prince continued in his uninterested-yet-interested tone, and I expected him to yawn at any moment.</p><p>“I'll pass on the offer.” I gazed back at him without the emotion he so openly tried to get out of me.</p><p>“Then what is this bitch's name?” he asked.</p><p>Speech is silver, but silence is golden, prince. Nobody taught you that? It was especially true of someone with high social standing and putrid mouth. He also used a key-word. Collars the Headsman left on his victims immediately came to mind. He kept heads on a leash, like you would a puppy. Or a bitch.</p><p>“The name is Yellmi Gittarackur. You don't mind, if I look around this place?”</p><p>“Fine with me,” he said and glided to the window to have a look outside.</p><p>All four of us spread like bugs throughout the gallery. Yet, Tserriednich focused his sleepy eyes on Kurapika and me. Very good. I needed his attention for the game of Hot and Cold. And it goes like this: An item gets hidden. The one who hid it navigates the one who is searching for it, using only words relating to temperature. You move in the right direction, you get hot; you move away from the item, and you get cold. In the prince's case, instead of words, I had to use his body language. Chances were, the closer I got to a place he didn't want me to come near, the more nervous he'd become. So, I was moving here and there, pretending to admire framed abominations, checking every once in a while, how he reacted. That trick didn't always work, but it was worth a try. I'd rather Tserriednich paid Chrollo for the rope I planned to hung him on.</p><p>I found the corridor that I had seen through binoculars. The one through which Tserriednich was passing. Dimly lit, many doors on the right, and only few to the left. The moment Hui Guo Rou noticed me moving that direction, he unglued himself from the window. It was warm. I quickened my pace and checked the doors to the left. All closed shut. Another glance at the prince. He was storming my way now. It was hot all right. I ran my finger along the wall, much like I had seen him do it. And there it was. That type of security I had seen many times before, chasing after my high-profile targets who believed they could hide from me in their little secret rooms. A switch on the wall masked behind a lamp resembling a candelabrum. Such uninspired means. I grasped it, twisted it, and heard an inviting click. Tserriednich made an attempt to grab my arm but missed. I rotated together with the hidden door and vanished on the other side of the wall. The passage shut behind me almost without a sound.</p><p>My, my. I was only looking for a safe deposit box and found another gallery instead. It was a storage room. For body parts. Mummified heads, hands, feet and eyes swam in colourful fluids mixed with formalin. All placed in hand-made, originally shaped glass structures – never a simple jar. The room wasn't very bright, but it was bright enough to see all the horrid details. There was also a safe deposit box. The only thing that stopped me from stepping further inside was a desk. It stood close to the entrance. Despite all the security, it seemed Tserriednich used it to further barricade the door. In case something went wrong, whilst he was losing himself, admiring his ghastly collection. If admiring was all he did there.</p><p>It didn't take him long to manifest in the room right after me. Boy, was he not oozing bloodlust! He closed the door. I heard an additional click. The moment I turned to face him, he jumped at me. My back arched under his weight until it met the desk's top.</p><p>“You piece of shit!” Tserriednich hissed; his fingers clenched on my trench's collar. A thick vein manifested on his forehead. To say, that he was enraged would be an understatement.</p><p>“Excuse me?” I said calmly. “I thought I heard 'Fine with me.'”</p><p>“Who are you? Speak!” He shook me with force that would break a less solid desk.</p><p>It was time for test number two: “My true name is Illumi Zoldyck.”</p><p>Tserriednich's eyes widened for a split second, then they narrowed again. “You think I'm afraid of a petty assassin?”</p><p>He recognized my family's name like no good prince ever should. Which stood to prove he was no stranger to the underground.</p><p>“A Mafia boy sold himself to cops,” he spat in my face. It was a good thing hatred couldn't kill on its own. I would have no chances otherwise. “You're just a whore, like the rest of them. Just a dirty little slut, despite this.”</p><p>He grabbed me by the balls and squeezed. Hard. A white bolt of pain exploded behind my eyes. It hurt like hell, even if I trained to sustain worse. I tried my best not to show any weakness for as long as I could bear it. And I didn't think I could bear it for long. That guy had an iron grip, and he wasn't planning to be tender with my sack. To the contrary. It was also a kind of hand capable of severing the neck from the rest of the body with one swing of a blade.</p><p>Through the blood thundering in my ears, I heard rushed steps on the corridor. Looked like Kurapika never took his eyes off me. Kurta banged on the wall, tried pulling at random items hanging on it, but the door didn't budge.</p><p>“Tserriednich!” he called from the other side. “Open the door! I know you're there!”</p><p>“You can do shit to me,” Tserriednich drawled the words though his teeth. They were clenched, much like mine, only for a different reason. “I will cut you up and put you on the display. How about that?”</p><p>“Get in line,” I managed. It cost me quite a lot of sweat. “You are not the only one who wants a piece of me.” My voice sounded strained. The pain was not subsiding. If anything, the savage hand clutched tighter. He really intended to make me scream in pain.</p><p>“I guess you filth made enemies when you changed sides.”</p><p>Not soon enough, he understood I wasn't going to give in. He let go of my testes and pushed my head instead. The back of it connected with the desk. The force of the shove made me see stars dancing in front of my eyes. Next, he promptly unlocked the door, before the detective could force it. Kurapika was taking a blind attempt to shoulder his way in. The moment Tserriednich opened the entrance, he sped inside and stopped on my belly. I was still dizzy, sprawled on the desk. I let a tormented groan out, when Kurapika added more pain to my maltreated nether regions.</p><p>The blond looked around in disgust, a pistol in his hand.</p><p>“What the <em>hell, </em>Tserriednich,” he exclaimed. “You better have some good explanation for this.”</p><p>“I am a collector of art.”</p><p>“You call <em>this</em> art?”</p><p>“I obtained them on many auctions. They are all legal goods. I can prove it, if you insist.”</p><p>“I insist! I want proofs of purchase sent to my office post haste.” Kurapika was still gasping, when he turned to me. “Good call this one.”</p><p>I was busy scrambling myself off of the desk. While at it, I scrutinized the safe deposit box. It looked reliable. Chrollo had better take that deal. It could be all his when its current owner was taken out of the picture. I paid more than I intended to learn about it. Oh! What a foresight that my family didn't rely on me to carry on the Zoldyck line.</p><p>We left the place. Tserriednich's eyes followed us for as long as he could watch us go. I wondered what was on his mind. Certainly not hammering nails into certain necks for collars to hold.</p><p>“How are you holding down there?” Kurapika asked.</p><p>“Do I speak in soprano?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Then I suppose it still works.”</p><p>I winced. The pain between my legs sent pulsing thuds up my temple. It is odd how these places are connected within the body. Your nuts get brutalized, and you can feel it in the side of your head.</p><p>“Is the last of your doubts gone, detective?” I asked after a moment's silence.</p><p>“Yes. He is it.”</p><p>“That a green light?”</p><p>“Yes. Don't forget to consult every step you plan to take. And remember, murder is–”</p><p>“–out of the question, I know. I will talk to some people. Cannot let you in on their identity, otherwise they might not be willing to assist.”</p><p>“Your connections have been taken into consideration the moment Mizaistom agreed to take you on board. I only need to know the general outline. Parties involved in it; I can turn a blind eye to. Want this man jailed before he murders more people.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>I had to recover a little before searching the 'Circus' hotel remains. Was killing time, listening-in on the boys. They kept looking for Ging's whereabouts and had another spat over the value of family. Music to my ears.</p><p>The late afternoon came. I informed Kurapika I was leaving. Kurta didn't ask my destination. He didn't have to. What were my guardian angels and trackers for, right? Not that I cared about them tailing me. I just wanted to admire the ruins.</p><p>On the way to NGL I pondered my options. Every job requires a proof of completion. A dead body usually sufficed. A couple of pictures, if the target was to mysteriously disappear never to show up again. With the firestarter I faced a certain difficulty. Nobody knew how the arsonist looked like, including Light Nostrade. How to prove to my client that I took the right target down? There also manifested a chance to earn some points with Mizaistom's men. Then perhaps prosecutor Krueger would stop detesting my person with such ferocity. Enticing idea.</p><p>The choice of the method was another question. With my needle to her throat, Palm would sooner throw a fit and fainted from exhaustion, rather than confessed. Judging by how much she yearned for danger and destruction, she might get off on having her life on the line. Danger and destruction. The first time we met, she wanted me to tell her all about it. A plan was already forming in my head.</p><p>I arrived at the place shortly before evening. The once mighty building was all rubble now. The ground scorched. Blackened brackets and other construction elements left where they had collapsed during conflagration. Sediment and soot everywhere. Nobody ever cleaned up in NGL.</p><p>In the proximity of where the hotel used to be, there protruded two cement walls from the ground. It shielded stairs leading further down. The steps ended in front of a metal door. The room behind it sat shallowly under ground, and it was all concrete. No wonder it remained intact. The passage – narrow and long like a snake's ass. Long and <em>dark</em>. I couldn't move an inch without a flare. Luckily, Milluki secured me those. It appeared to be a maintenance room, and possibly where Palm prepared her explosives. Old, damaged equipment everywhere I looked. Rotten ladders, dirty brushes, buckets with paint that dried or hardened a long time ago. At the far end I found dusty shelves and on them many bottles and boxes. Denatured alcohol, solvents, oils, rancid grease, lubricants, and other tools used for conservation. Couple of extinguishers on the walls like a bad joke. Light streamed inside through a square opening above. There used to be a trapdoor there.</p><p>The whole garlands of spider webs and undisturbed layers of dirt told me that no one had set a foot there in years. Well, I was both right and wrong. Because there <em>was</em> someone else there with me. Only not in the room but above it.</p><p>A heavy iron grate blocked the opening over my head; it covered the hole in the ceiling with a loud crash. Moments later gasoline began to pour in through the gaps. I was already retracting, sensing what was about to come next. She added a burning cloth to the delivery. The explosion blinded my eyes and pushed me further back. A few heartbeats later all containers under pressure blew up. Glass cracked. Sharp pieces flew in all direction. Everything started catching fire and quick. Crap. My day began with my testes trapped in the Headsman's vice-like grip. It was only fitting it ended with me counting breaths in a blazing underground.</p><p>No time to check if flying shrapnel hit me. Even if, I hardly felt any pain, too focused on saving my skin. Mouth covered behind high collar, I felt my legs carry me to the exit, and that seemed good enough. Now and then, something gave in to the heat with a loud bang. Bottles were breaking, wood cracking, shelves and lockers collapsing. The oxygen was running low. I gave it a second thought and bolted ahead. No point saving the air. The room was too small for that, all impenetrable cement. Had to get out of there immediately, otherwise I'd suffocate before flames had a chance to reach me. The door, as far as I recalled, opened to the outside. If Palm thought of blocking it, I was as good as dead. Safer to assume she did think of that, so the moment I spotted the exit, I sped up to force it, while I still had the strength. Pre-emptively. Another explosion, a whizz of catapulted elements close to my ear. A second later I was falling face-first on the concrete floor. A blunt pulsing pain was spreading at the back of my head. The world swirled before my eyes. Unbearable embers, everything seemed to boil and wave. Toxic fumes were already giving me a hard time. I was sweating, coughing and shaking, my vision blurred. Every inhale like swallowing scorching charcoal. I looked at the exit – it doubled and tripled, and quadrupled. Yet, it seemed so close. I moved on all fours, head low to the ground, lungs screaming for mercy, the tempest roaring behind me. Almost there. I saw my arm extending to reach for the handle. My hand was trembling so bad, it would make an addict on rehab blush. Could no longer hear my ragged breathing. It was only ringing in my ears now. All muted as if I was already departing from my body. A click and the door opened. A breeze of cool air like salvation. But it was far from over. Still had some stairs to climb. I only hoped to pass out in a safe distance from fire. I never made it, though.</p><p>A pair of heavy boots blocked my way. Nothing a woman would wear. The sound of raging blazes became muffled, far away, on another planet. Someone lifted me up and threw me over his shoulder. Before I blacked out, I could have sworn, my nose brushed against some feathers.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>I came to before midnight. Eyes closed, I listened to my surroundings. Something soft beneath me, a quiet room around me, not spacious but not small either. Someone was there with me. Heard rustling of paper and rattling of metal. Smelled mild anise cologne. Leorio's office. I was lying on a leather examination couch. A white sheet covered me neck to toe. The doc spun on his chair, when he noticed me lifting myself up. Slowly. My head felt heavy. I rested on my elbows, waiting for black dots in the field of my vision to subside.</p><p>“Good evening,” Leorio said, making a grab at his stethoscope. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“I–” I coughed. A sickening layer of in-took combustion waste still lingered on my palate. “How did I get here?”</p><p>“Knuckle brought you.” Leorio beamed at my dumbstruck expression. I forgot to keep my unfazed face. It happened on occasion when I found myself amidst trustworthy people. Leorio plugged eartips of his stethoscope in his ears and started moving its chestpiece over my upper body. “Inhale.” I inhaled, and he listened. “Exhale.”</p><p>Leorio stood there for a while, ordering me to breathe in and out. When he finished, he let the stethoscope dangle loose from his neck.</p><p>“He surprised me as well,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “It doesn't take a study in psychology to notice Knuckle isn't quite fond of you. But it was him. He entered my office, carrying your lifeless person on his back. He said they followed your tracker to the Red Lights district. You were laying on a bench in Lovers Park, unconscious. So, they brought you here. Knuckle spoke his memorable 'I'm kind to animals' and dropped you on my couch, like you were a sack of potatoes.”</p><p>Kind to animal, huh? One wondered what Knuckle meant by that. Was I an animal in his eyes? That would be an improvement. Or did he aim to imply that my presence in the park was somehow offensive to the local population of squirrels and pigeons?</p><p>I grabbed the sheet covering me and realized, I was naked.</p><p>“You stripped me,” I noted, my voice still hoarse.</p><p>“Yeah. Blushing?” He took a smoke from a cigarette bag and placed it unlit in the corner of his mouth. The unlit cig. Forever there. Much like his small tea-shades. “Don't sweat it. Sooner or later, I see all of you unclothed, considering the kind of wounds you lot tend to attract. How else were I to check, what happened to you? You were even less talkative than you usually are. That’s what being KO does to you. But you haven’t been shot nor cut. A few bruises here and there. Irritated skin. And you smell like a burnt dinner. You have a small bump at the back of your head. My deduction: someone knocked you cold with a baseball bat and threw you in the oven.”</p><p>“I was caught in a fire,” I said, snorted, coughed, and shook my head. “You would make a horrible detective, Leorio.”</p><p>“That's because all my skill went into medical study.” Leorio pointed at the nearby stool. “Your clothes are over there. You can get dressed waist down. Leave upper body bare for now.”</p><p>“Then you must have seen Kurapika's back,” I slurred, reaching for my pants. It felt like I still had ash in my mouth.</p><p>Leorio sighed. It was a tired, old man's sigh. “Was he waving that goddamn chain again?”</p><p>“A few days ago.”</p><p>“One infection in the eyes is not enough for him, is it?”</p><p>“Why do you think he mutilates himself?”</p><p>“Guilt.” Leorio walked to a tall cabinet and took a small box from it. “His whole family was murdered. He and Pairo survived only because they weren't there when it happened. Kurapika somehow thinks he is to blame.”</p><p>“That has something to do with why the boy is blind?”</p><p>“Nah, he had sight problems since birth. In a way, it saved the both of them. The execution occurred when Kurapika was with his cousin at the ophthalmologist.” Leorio moved behind me. “Will rub some lotion in, starting from the back. It will soothe the pain and speed up your recovery.”</p><p>He smeared the lotion on his hands and proceeded with spreading it all over my aching skin. He wasn't just rubbing it in. There was a technique to his touch. Had to admit, it felt gorgeous.</p><p>“Are you also a masseur?” I asked.</p><p>“Feels nice, eh?” It did. It felt so good, I was glad he let me put my pants on first. “To tell you the truth, I had taken a training indeed. Once, I got pummelled so bad, I could barely move a finger. A colleague suggested that I visit a professional masseur. What she did to me was so heavenly, I thought: 'Hot damn! There are healing powers to a good massage.' Taking into consideration how broken some of you are returned to me, I've added massage to my practice.”</p><p>“You may be the only decent guy in whole Yorkshin, Leorio,” I informed, and I meant it. Heart of gold, that medic. I may be a murderer, but I am well capable of assessing people's value. Leorio was a true professional, much like me. He would do everything to save a man. I would do everything to kill him. I don't grow attachments, but if I ever liked someone, Leorio was the closest thing to it. In the unlikely event that I should receive a contract on his head, my hand might tremble. Only a little. I would still do it. No professional likes when useful things go to waste, though. And he had such a wonderful touch.</p><p>“An odd confession coming from you, Yellmi,” he said.</p><p>“It's true. Everywhere I look, I see cursed, haunted people. But not you. You seem different.”</p><p>“There's still time for my curse to find me,” he chortled, moved in front of me, and pointed at his unlit cigarette. “Smokes ain't it.” The doc smeared more lotion on his hands. “Lean back.”</p><p>I did, and he worked his palms over my sides. Short bites of pain soon melted away. My muscles relaxed, and all I received, was a blissful cool of the medicament and medic's touches. Leorio's massage wasn't exactly delicate, he applied force where it mattered. I closed my eyes, letting the man work.</p><p>“Nearly done here,” Leorio said, moving his hands up my chest to wipe them off of the lotion. He accidentally brushed my nipple and got a muffled moan out of me. “Sensitive, are we?” he joked.</p><p>“More like appreciative of your excellent treatment,” I said frankly and let out a deep sigh. There I was thinking, I'd be hurting for days, taking into consideration all that happened to me in the span of mere 24 hours. Glad I was mistaken.</p><p>“Say no more. I experienced it first-hand. That's why I've mastered it.” Leorio patted me on the shoulder. “Tomorrow you'll be as good as new. Lemme put poultice on it and wrap it with a loose bandage to minimize friction. Leave it overnight. Take it off in the morning.”</p><p>I sat patiently, watching him put on me a couple of gauzes soaked in some herbal extract. Next, he was stepping circles around me, wrapping my torso with long stripes of sterile wool. I had a curious glance at his pants. It was growing a little tent. Massage done well can have this effect on a man, so I was excused. But there was no excuse for Leorio. He really enjoyed being of assistance to fellow human beings, didn't he? Or maybe he liked me. Some people did, despite their better judgement.</p><p>“There,” he said. “Off you go. Take these in case you are in pain.” He tossed me a plastic bottle with several pills rattling inside.</p><p>“Thanks.” I slid off the couch, got dressed, said goodnight, and left.</p><p>Decided to visit Shalnark's shop come next morning. It was about time to strike a deal with the Phantom Troupe's leader. I never met the guy, so had to rely on a middleman. I didn't expect Chrollo to answer my call immediately, and that was all good. It gave me some time to tie up one loose end.</p><p>I slowed down by Knov's office. Expected to see thin, pale, misty fingers of smoke escaping through the gaps in the door's frame. Be it nicotine vapours or furniture catching fire. Almost saw it. My mind, still shocked from memory of oxygen deprivation, was playing tricks on me. The place was silent, though. No smoke. No lights except for soft afterglow, coming from Leorio's office. It was late. Nobody inside.</p><p>Miss Siberia tried very hard to get my attention. And even in Yorkshin sometimes you get what you wished for.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Down in the park with a friend called fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Misfortune never comes singly – or so the saying goes. I had my share of bad luck. It chased after me like a vindictive wraith the day before. Even so, it was safe to assume misfortune moved on to bother someone else. Someone like Palm, for instance. How the tables have turned… One minute you are being hunted, the next you are the hunter.</p><p>A lot on my head that day. Luckily, if there ever existed a man as well organized as the Great Yorkshin Library catalogue, it was me. Preparations – my favourite part of any job. This wasn't a simple kill, though. Palm had to admit, she was the elusive firestarter, and I had to get it on tape. And what unties tongues better than infatuation. Easy? Could be. Yet, it was always better not to judge the book by its cover. No matter how simple the job appeared, it demanded focus and dedication. My inner perfectionist would scold me for months otherwise. There was a side of me nobody lived long enough to talk about. Sure, it was all an act. Still, aren't we all but actors on the grand stage of life? For Palm, the time had come to bow and leave the spotlight.</p><p>I went to the lab early in the morning; about 15 minutes after the secretary swayed her hips into the office. I said 'hi' to Kite, and he mumbled 'hee' back, too busy to even look up from the table. While crossing the lab, I checked out his painting. Crazy Sloths appeared intrigued. They knew something was brewing. They always seemed to know. And they always kept their little snouts shut.</p><p>Leorio was slaving in his workplace. Maybe he never left it. It was quite late at night when he attended to my seared skin, and his examination couch felt pretty comfy.</p><p>I entered Knov's office without knocking. The smoke was already cumulating, but it had a long way to go. As soon as the door closed behind me, a heavy silence fell over the room. As if somewhere nearby opened an invisible black hole – an exclusive trap for noises. Even the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall seemed remote, struggling to realize itself. Like a dream – there, but not quite. Palm stiffened behind her desk. The evening-sky blue eyes – two stilettos aimed at my skull. The glowing cigarette's tip shook between lean fingers. The secretary put out her cig in the ashtray, applying too much force. Her other hand dived to the drawer. Not a gun – I thought. Something personal. More like a knife. I moved forward; my expression stern, head bent, gaze transfixed on her pallid face.</p><p>“Not a step further!” Palm jumped off her chair, pointing the tip of a little knife at me.</p><p>“You tried to kill me,” I said in a grim voice and moved closer.</p><p>“Don't!” She jabbed the air. Three times.</p><p>“Or what?”</p><p>“Or I'll scream.”</p><p>“And what will you tell them? That you mistook me for kindling?”</p><p>“You deserved it,” she hissed. “The day you first came here, my heart fluttered. I thought I found my soul mate. But you were so impassive, so deadpan. My eyes opened, and I realized, you are a cold bastard. <em>Bastard</em>!” she emphasized melodramatically.</p><p>“This doesn't change the fact that you tried to kill me.”</p><p>“And who will believe <em>you</em>!” She looked me up and down with repulsion. There was regret there, too. “A felon's word against mine. You are a criminal, a scum. Get out of my sight! Stay here any longer, and I'll tell them, you tried to force yourself on me.”</p><p>Short memory, Palm. Were I the type to hold grudges, I'd remind her of who was imposing herself on whom the first time we met.</p><p>“You tried to kill me,” I repeated, and advance by two more steps.</p><p>“Get out, get out!” Palm kept stabbing the empty space between us. Black locks danced around her head. She noticed me minimizing the distance regardless, and let out a high-pitched yelp. “I'll stab you! I'll stab you; I'll stab you to <em>death</em>!”</p><p>“I think not,” I concluded and darted forward.</p><p>Before Miss Siberia managed to rise her voice again, I was already behind her, covering her mouth. Disarming Palm proved as easy as taking candy from a baby, even if I had only one hand free. In truth, she almost tossed the knife away on her own volition. Not hard to imagine where that was coming from. Throwing matches at spilled petrol to torch uninhabited buildings was one thing. To sink a blade deep inside a living breathing flesh was another. To feel the resistance when it cuts through tissues, veins, layers of fat, and grinds against bones? I had all reasons to believe, she'd sooner throw up than try that. Oh, she wanted to, all right. Maybe she even lied to herself that she was capable of it. This would explain why she waved the knife in front of strangers. But she didn't have it in her. Not yet, at least.</p><p>The woman struggled for a while – a fish caught in a fisherman's net. I pressed my lips to her ear, the way I saw father do so many times when mum went hysterical. It always seemed to pacify my mother. Waited it out, listening to Palm's muffled wails. The secretary did the only thing she could – she gave up. Her anger vanished, replaced with self-pity. She began sobbing.</p><p>“Sh-sh-sh,” I soothed. “You tried to kill me, but I don't take offence. Ultimately, I made it out alive, thanks to a minor deficiency in your set-up.” I nuzzled her neck, feeling fury roll off of her. “Care to discuss it over dinner?”</p><p>Palm froze, blinked, sniffed, and gasped, and sniffed again. I removed my hand from her mouth. She turned to face me, all wide-eyed, lips parted in disbelief.</p><p>“You're asking me out?” she asked in a timid voice of a little girl. The raging vengeful harpy disappeared without a trace.</p><p>“It's not every day someone comes this close to frying me alive. Consider me charmed.” I smiled, and watched her cheeks turn rosy. One moment I looked at an arsonist developing homicidal tendencies. The next I was encouraging shy innocence to brighten up. That's the very reason you take your medicine if you have a condition. But hers – she discarded.</p><p>“Why Knooov…” Palm said, a languid silk to her voice now.</p><p>“He's never here,” I said. A few hair strands stuck to her face. I moved them behind her ear. “Have so many stories to share,” I spurred.</p><p>“I don't knooow…” Palm's gaze shifted to the side; her fingers nibbled at the hem of her sleeve.</p><p>Superficial resistance. Only there to make her feel better about cheating on Knov. When I am at my best performance, people find it hard not to hand me over their strings. It is almost as if I possessed some super-power, so easy I find it to manipulate others.</p><p>“Let's trade stories over a tasty meal. Only you and me, wine, candlelights, some nice music. What do you say?” Who would pass that up? Not an individual as starved for tales of destruction as Palm. And so, I got myself a date.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>My next stop was at watchmaker's. Told Shalnark that I wished to speak with Chrollo face-to-face. The blond promised to convey my request. Thanked him, gave him his watch back, and bought an additional microcassette recorder. Milluki sent me one, but the device could contain only one tape. If I wanted to please both Nostrade and Morel, I needed an extra one.</p><p>Had to lay my hands on a proper suit for the romantic evening. A couple of renowned tailors owned prestigious parlours in the city. Every one of them had exhibitions, showcasing their best craft. Something caught your eye, and it could be yours for a hefty sum. I cruised from one exhibition to another for quite a while before I found the right attire. A purple jacket and trousers, a crimson satin shirt, and a dark blue vest. The vest had a fancy chain dangling from the breast pocket. The best part – it also had a high collar, and I was a sucker for those. Added black leather boots and a black velvet hair ribbon to the bill. The shop-boy packed it modestly. No reason for my expenses to draw unwanted attention.</p><p>Most of the ingredients required for the job I stashed in Milluki's box. To think, I considered them redundant the first time I saw them. The only things missing were isinglass or gelatine, solvent base, and baking soda. Nothing a regular convenience store wouldn't offer. While waiting in queue at the check-out, a long row of condoms on the exposition drew my attention. They sat sandwiched between cigarettes and menthol breath fresheners. Although I didn't plan to push it this far, such a turn of events couldn't be ruled out. And it's always better to be safe than sorry. I added one condom pack to the basket, paid, and moved on to the confectionery.</p><p>When you think about murder, you rarely imagine it wrapped in a candy. Yet, that was what I had in store for Palm. There was a shop I often visited for elaborated purchases like that. The owners placed exemplary, unwrapped pralines next to the boxes they came out from. Something I appreciated a bunch. It was also Kill's favourite candy store. The only one that offered more than five flavours of Chocorobos. Oh, how he loved to stuff his mouth full of those. It's a wonder his daily intake of sugar didn't cause him cavities yet. It explained the bottomless reserves of energy, though. Searched the place for a chocolate box, a bonbon type, with round, medium-size candy. It ought to be big enough to fill the mouth, yet too small to sink teeth in it. Something that melted fast on top of the tongue, and demanded to be swallowed right away. No biting. Soon, I found the right candy for my special filling.</p><p>It was well past afternoon. One last thing left to decide. Yorkshin was a hellish pit, but it could also be a glamorous pit, if you knew where to look. Countless luxurious restaurants, swank cafeterias, and extravagant dance clubs to choose from. A Spider owned one such place. Since I already relied on their help, why not tighten the knot?</p><p>'Sphinx' was an atmospheric restaurant. Or so it seemed at first glance. Its back door served Chrollo's thieves to hide valuable goods. They also stored weapons and drugs there. Apart from that, it was a sophisticated dining room. The décor invoked an oasis. Many palms and illuminated fountains. Even a small pond with goldfish. The walls – hardened glass with tons of sand trapped behind them. Phinks build in a special mechanism that moved the sand around. Pretty neat. The restaurant had a decent band, a dance floor, good food, wide selection of alcohol – who could ask for more?</p><p>“Let me take a wild guess: someone's going to die soon,” Phinks greeted me, when I entered his place. He was a tall man, very well-built, with blonde hair cut short. Phinks always wore an ominous expression. As if he left it to his facial features to warn any punk against messing with him or his business. That same face assured his clients that nobody would dare stir up any trouble, while they were spending their quality time in the restaurant.</p><p>“People die every day,” I said conversationally.</p><p>“Tell that to the guy in the basement.” Phinks motioned his head towards floor panels. “I bet he'd love to be on the other side already.” The way he phrased it; it reeked of Feitan. “So, what brings you?”</p><p>“I'd appreciate a table for two for the evening. Think you can secure me that?”</p><p>“Is the sky blue? I'll even have the band play your favourite songs. Anything else?”</p><p>“Do you have any torches to add to the décor?” He looked at me as if I had grown a second head. “Well, then adorn the table with candles, pretty please. Make them many.”</p><p>“Who are you dating? A pyromaniac?”</p><p>“Yup.” I put the money on the counter; more than enough. “This should cover it.”</p><p>“You know the drill: no spilling blood inside. This is a place of unblemished reputation. You want to get your hands dirty, better use the basement.” He stomped on the panel. I tipped my ear, but couldn't hear any cries coming from below. Every torture chamber worth its name ought to be soundproof.</p><p>“It won't be necessary. Lately, I find you Spiders so easy-going. I hope your boss feels the same.”</p><p>“Danchou respects your family, not to mention our little collaboration proves profitable. Still, never forget, Spiders like you for only as long as he does.” Phinks didn't strike me as a person who'd like anyone, no matter the reasons. 'Tolerate' was more like it. “You'll wait for his attention, though. We're kicking off a big operation in the city soon. It's concluded, and I'm sure he'll hear you out.”</p><p>The Troupe's dealings were none of my business, so I didn't ask questions. Having the table reserved, I could go back to headquarters.</p><p> </p><p>That day Colt bit off more than he could chew. The moment I entered the police station's hallway, a horrible clamour invaded my ears. A few officers were screaming their lungs out, running like headless chickens. I heard an angry 'Rooaaargh!', followed by 'Oh dear, he's going to escape!', followed by, 'THE ANT KING, I'LL PROTECT! WRAH!' Even Kite and Leorio came down from the lab to see what was the fracas about. The walls shook, when the angry jailbird banged on the bars, and rampaged in his isolation room.</p><p>The cells main function was to hold drunkards and dope-heads until they sobered up. On occasion a testosterone-rich brawler or a street thief ended up there. A violent husband, or a freaked-out wife; sometimes an overzealous hooker – that sort of folks. However, one of the chambers had to accommodate a guy far too huge for the tiny space it provided. He had an awful sunburn. My first impression was, he overslept during a session on a tanning bed. The reddened skin was most definitely hurting, but he didn't care. Tripping junkies never do. Dope numbs to pain much like alcohol does.</p><p>To say, that the guy was beefed up wouldn't do him justice. He wore only tight, knee-length pants. No shirt, no boots, no socks to his name. He flexed strong knots of muscles, squeezed two iron bars, and started bending them to widen the gap.</p><p>„Mr. Menth… Menthu… Youpi, calm down!” Colt pleaded. All he received back was another 'Wraaah!', and a sound of iron bars giving in.</p><p>„Youpi, stop it, or I'll put a bullet in your leg,” another officer warned, tugging on his holster.</p><p>“I would advise against it,” Leorio said down-to-earthly. “In his state of mind, he'll keep dragging his bleeding limb until the drug wears off. You'll only get his blood smeared all over the place.”</p><p>Kite nodded in agreement.</p><p>Soon, Shoot stormed in, followed by Knuckle.</p><p>“What's that racket?” Knuckle asked.</p><p>“It's Mr. Youpi.” Colt said. “He's out of his mind.”</p><p>We watched as the junkie with a terrible sunburn kept bending the bars. He gritted his teeth, then bellowed: “I need to protect the ant king, mortals! Get out of my way!”</p><p>“Move aside.” Shoot strode up and outstretched his missing arm in Youpi's general direction. Only it wasn't an arm. It was a god-damn canon. “You better step back, son, or I swear to heavens, I'll blast you through and through, and there will be nothing left of you, but a pool of blood and pile of meat to be mopped up and flushed down the toilet.” He let it out in a single breath. “Don't force my hand, or I <em>will</em> shoot.”</p><p>I blinked to cover my awe. Once, twice; for a third time. The arm-turned-into-a-gun was still there. I wasn't imagining it.</p><p>If such a monstrous weapon was an extension of my arm, I'd appear worried all day long too. That thing looked heavy, let alone dangerous. How did Shoot manage to keep his stance straight while carrying it? Wheels within wheels, only literally. Many mobile rings, many holes with different calibre muzzles peeking out from them. That heater could bulldoze a hole in the prison wall. It could blow up not only the rascal, but the gun's owner, together with the whole damn neighbourhood. Who knows what Shoot had to go through to tame that beast. Apparently, he wasn't relying on it very often. The moment Knuckle saw it, his smug demeanour changed. He became alerted, and cautious as if he was walking on eggshells.</p><p>Shoot moved his armed arm. It droned, whirred, hummed, and buzzed, when a couple of iron rings shifted. Soon, four long, 4 mm muzzles slid out from their slots. That caught Mr. Youpi's attention.</p><p>“Bring the dose, doc,” Shoot ordered. His worried eyes never left Youpi's confused ones. “Make it snappy.”</p><p>Leorio raced back to his office. Before you could say 'Jump, Leorio', the man returned, carrying a needle with a sedative dose. Shoot took the syringe, loaded it into his firearm somewhere, aimed it at Youpi, and fired. The catapulted needle anchored in the big guy's arm. He stumbled back and fell on a simple bed. Springs squeaked, the bed's frame bowed, but it held.</p><p>“That's a good boy,” Shoot commended. “Now close those sleepy eyes, and have a nap.” The gun buzzed when the officer hid it under his trench coat. And as if nothing ever happened, he returned to being my one-armed guardian angel of sorrow.</p><p>One other thing caught my attention. Nothing as massive, nor as impressive as Shoot's hidden advantage, but still. My guardian angel of fury stopped eyeballing me so hard. We exchanged glances, and I nodded my head in recognition of what he did for me the other day. Instead of jumping at the opportunity to poke fun at me, he nodded back. No deriding. No belittling. No princessing. Was he warming up to me? Because I got near castrated? Was it compassion for my balls? Or the realization that in an alternative universe it could have been his sack instead? Be it as it may, it was a good turn of events. The day <em>was</em> looking up.</p><p> </p><p>Back in my room, I turned Milluki's box upside down. I was positive I saw cherry-bomb seeds in there. A peculiar thing that one. Very versatile. Its core was basically a heart stopping poison. Perfect for the job. You could change the type of food that discharged the toxin. Too bad, I had no time for that; I opted for expediency. A slow-acting solvent would suffice. I prepared the solvent and let it mellow for 10 minutes. Meantime, I drilled a tiny hole in the seed's protective shell. Injected the solvent inside the core, and coated the whole thing with what had left over. Never forget, the stuff inside ought to connect with the stuff outside. The solvent also hardens pretty fast, unless you add a bit of isinglass to it. And so, the cherry-bomb was ready to go inside the round praline. It was almost like working with plasticine. Candy I bought had a wrinkled, uneven surface, so minor deficiency in shape could be excused. There was one big problem with this method, though. Bluntly speaking, the seed could be shat out before the toxin release. Nothing a dosage of iron-rich antacid administered to the candy couldn't prevent. It would give Miss Siberia quite a constipation. Wrapped the treat back in the glittering red foil, and scratched it to leave a mark. To be on the safe side, I prepared two cherry-bombs. In case Palm didn't like candy.</p><p>No longer than 48 hours after ingestion Palm should drop dead from a heart attack. Nostrade would have to stomach the wait. Doing kindness by accepting odd jobs had its price – that was one. Two – I wanted Morel the catch the firestarter, so I was stalling for time. If I gained favour with Mizaistom, my chances of returning home without imbroglio increased. That seemed the best of both worlds, so why not go the extra mile?</p><p>Four hours left until the date. I spent it on the rooftop, observing Tserriednich's building through the spyglass. A cup of tea beside me, the eavesdropping device plugged into my ear. Nothing interesting around the gallery. The same couldn't be told about Kill and his companion. Apparently, they found Ging. Apparently, he escaped again. Gon was down, and Killua tried to cheer him up.</p><p>“Trust me,” my brother said. “Next time, pay more attention to how people behave, rather than to what they are prattling about. Watch the body language, man.” Kill paraphrased my words. When I was teaching him how to read lips and communicate with signs, I repeated that over and over. 'Watch the body language, Kill.'</p><p>“What makes you think you can read Ging better than I?” Gon complained. Next time he spoke, it came out sarcastic: “Oh, right. It's because you actually have a family. How stupid of me. You're <em>obviously</em> more experienced in family matters!” I heard a slapping sound, as if Gon slapped himself on the forehead.</p><p>“All I'm saying is, what if Ging's reasons are not as black and white as we first assumed?” Kill said. “Sure, it's only my impression. I may be wrong. Though it's unlikely,” he muttered under his breath. “But Ging doesn't strike me as someone who hates his son. He wasn't annoyed to see you, nor was he hostile. Terrified was more like it.”</p><p>“Would I die, if he exchanged two sentences with me?” Gon kept on griping. “Don't I deserve to know why he abandoned me?”</p><p>“That's the point. Sometimes, protecting someone means cutting all ties with them. Who knows what Ging got himself into?”</p><p>“Whose friend are you, his or mine?”</p><p>“What the fuck?”</p><p>“Don't you 'what the fuck' me! You actually sympathize more with my deadbeat dad than me.”</p><p>“Why you…”</p><p>Kill started the fight. It was always him who'd jump at Gon first. That hot-head. I heard pants and groans, and quickened breaths. The skirmish ceased when some fabric tore.</p><p>“Great, you've murdered my shirt. Thanks a bunch,” Kill's haggard voice sounded. In the background Gon broke into tears. “Oh, hell.” Little brother hugged the other boy; Gon's sobbing grew louder in my ear.</p><p>“I hate it, you know?” the boy said, sobbing every other word. “I only wanted a moment with my dad.”</p><p>Gon wailed quietly, and Kill shushed him, sighing. Then he spoke:</p><p>“Let's drop chasing after Ging. I have a better idea.”</p><p>Gon replied with some unintelligible mumble.</p><p>“If it works, you'll get a sense of belonging to a family. More than that: you'll get strong. And one day we will find Ging again. He sees how capable of self-defence you are, and he might finally stop running. And we get to remain friends.” Then his voice dropped. “That would mean, I'll have to return to–” Kill cleared his throat before carrying on, his tone upbeat again, “But first, I need to have a word with someone.”</p><p>“With whom?” Gon asked and slurped.</p><p>“Will tell you on my return. He's not easy to reach right now, due to… circumstances. It may take a couple of days. You go back to the hotel, and get some rest. Have fun or something. This shirt is done for, by the way.”</p><p>“You can have mine,” the other boy offered.</p><p>“Nah, I'll stick to it until I find a decent replacement in the city. Don't do anything reckless when I'm gone. Gon!”</p><p>And the boys giggled.</p><p>My bug's time was running out. At least Milluki would be glad to know his spying prototype never disappointed.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Neither did Phinks. The table he prepared stood in a sea of dancing shadows cast by many candlelights. Other than that, he arranged two tall, medium-size goblets of fire, one for each side of the table. He soaked the charcoal with something, or used a special fuel. Whatever it was, it released a tangible rosy scent whilst it burned. Soft light illuminated the sand behind the walls, as it moved in graceful waves. Various seashells, corals, and starfish vanished and appeared, and vanished and appeared. Palm was stunned, as well as stunning.</p><p>She chose a dark blue dress the colour of her eyes. It hugged her waist almost like a corset. The dress reached to her ankles, had a zip on the side, long sleeves, and a modest cleavage. Not much jewellery on her either. What Palm wore, bore signs of utmost elegance and mindfulness I thought her incapable of. Black pearl studs in her ears, four-strands black pearl necklace, and matching bracelet. High heels, ruby plush, and a similar handbag. Nothing sparkly. An attractive woman blinds the eyes with her beauty. No need for the attire or adornments to steal the attention away from her. Palm's hair was loose and curly just how she liked it. Miss Siberia made an impression. Heads were turning as we were walking up to our table.</p><p>“This place is beautiful,” she gasped, watching heaving sand. “Looks expensive, too.”</p><p>“Everything has been taken care off.” I pressed the back of her hand to my lips, then helped her sit on the chair. “Don't think about it. Let enjoying this evening be your only worry.”</p><p>“And we'll trade stories,” she smiled, sitting down.</p><p>“And we'll trade stories,” I confirmed cheerfully, and tapped my trousers pocket. A small rectangular shape in there. The microcassette recorder. The second one waited in my jacket's inner pocket.</p><p>The waiter approached with the menus. Palm decided on the order – a shared steak and many appetizers. Soon, we were served one monstrous piece of crisped meat, and a slew of snacks. Oysters, pickled olives, a variety of blue cheese, marinated mushrooms, orange-glazed rice balls, snacks filled to the brim with all types of stuffing imaginable. And wine, of course, red and white.</p><p>We engaged in a casual talk, getting a feel of each other. Palm was quite a conversationalist. First, she asked me about my prison life. When I satisfied her curiosity, she clued me in on the funnier side of working for the police. I learned that Knuckle had a parrot he named Hakoware. The bird picked up one phrase: 'It's time', and so, whenever the officer showed up late for work, he'd often blame his pet. And lieutenant Mizaistom had a knack for step-dancing. According to Palm, he was capable of stepping to any tune – familiar or not. Somehow, I couldn't imagine him doing that. We were laughing like hyenas all the same.</p><p>The secretary didn't light a single smoke. Nor was she pressing to hear my gory tales. The hunger was still there. Yet, Palm knew, she'd get her treat, so she focused on savouring every moment of being together instead. Me? I was playing my role. The confession could wait. But there was no reason to delay the cherry-bomb any longer.</p><p>“We have this game, where I come from,” I said, reaching down for the chocolate box. “It's called 'The Wish Master.'” I placed the bonbons on the table and took the lid off.</p><p>Palm glanced at the pralines, then her smiling eyes were back on me, glinting like marbles.</p><p>“This box holds a special candy with a tiny raisin hidden inside. It's my childhood game, but it's all true.”</p><p>“What is true?” she hummed, one hand supporting her cheek.</p><p>“Whoever gets this unique candy, will have incredible luck for years to come. The good fortune is so swell, that it seems preposterous. And so, the lucky party should share some of it with the other contestants. Thus, 'The Wish Master.' If I'm the one who gets the raisin, you can ask of me whatever you want. And if it's you, I expect you to admit it, and grant me my wish.”</p><p>“An interesting game,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “Never heard of it.”</p><p>“It's more than a game, Palm.” I looked her in the eyes, closing her hand between mine. “It's about trust, honesty, and sharing.”</p><p>The game wasn't entirely my confabulation. I often played it with my brothers. A box filled with treats, only some of them poisoned. Whoever got the tampered-with candy won – an improved resistance to that particular toxin. It never looked nice, when one of us started bleeding, convulsing, barfing, foaming or outright passed out. Increasing tolerance comes at a cost. A regular poison intake sustained the immunity to it. Turning it into a game was our way to make it more… humane.</p><p>“Let's see who's lucky then.” Palm reached out for a candy.</p><p>That day truly stood in stark contrast to the previous one. She pulled the marked praline right off the bat. The secretary unwrapped the cherry-bomb, and popped it into her mouth. Seconds later her brows went up.</p><p>“Think I've got it!” she exclaimed, slurring words a little.</p><p>“Remember not to bite on it,” I warned. “You don't want to break your chain of good fortune.”</p><p>I stared intensively at her working mouth, and moving throat, as she pushed the seed down her gullet. Palm noticed me gawking, and drew her own conclusion. She moistened her lips in invitation. I thought – <em>The heck, why not?</em> <em>Good behaviour should be rewarded.</em> I leaned in and pulled her into a kiss. Searched for the solvent's bitterness among the overwhelming sweetness. Looked for a hint of antacid. Nothing. For the assassin being a successful death's messenger was the only source of satisfaction. I revelled in it for a while, before the joy was gone. It always fled so fast. No trace of a bitter taste. Only the sweet delicacy of <em>everything going according to plan</em>.</p><p>We broke the kiss, and Palm's sheepish eyes surveyed mine keenly.</p><p>“You <em>are</em> my soul mate,” she breathed out. “I am certain. All that time I thought your eyes were black, but there is a purplish flame in them now.”</p><p>“You made me happy,” I said, and cleared some chocolate from the corner of her mouth.</p><p>Done with the most important part of the job, I leaned my back against the chair, trying not to look too pleased.</p><p>“So, what is it you want from the Wish Master?” she asked.</p><p>“Mmm… I can think of many things.” I scrutinized her seductively. “Let me keep my wish for later. Would you like to hear my stories?”</p><p>“Now?” Palm cleared her mouth with delicate pats of a handkerchief. Her eyes darted towards the musicians, and from them back to me. “Do you dance?”</p><p>“Like no other.”</p><p>I stood up and unbuttoned my jacket. Tied my hair earlier in a ponytail at my nape with the velvet ribbon. I wondered if it would survive the dance floor. It was doing well so far.</p><p>The band threw at us a fast swing beat; rock and Lindy Hop, and quickstep, and boogie. I knew many dances, and didn't tire easily. I could keep going for days, stopping only for a drink. Aimed to exhaust Palm so that there was nothing else left to do, but talk. Yet, I was in for a surprise. She was swaying her hips, shaking her legs, and rolling with grace from my left to my right. She whirled on her own, or let me spin her like a spindle. And she never tired. I started feeling a bit pressed for time. It was getting late. Then the band began slowing the pace, until it steadied to the sound of a lazy blues. We rocked to the melody, panting a little from all that swinging. Miss Siberia snuggled up to me, her eyes lidded, palms on my clavicle, ear pressed to my chest. Black curls under my nose smelled of evening stocks mixed with a faint bitter nicotine scent. Palm's addiction followed her like a shadow. Yet, for such a heavy smoker, the cigs were barely traceable on her.</p><p>“Illumi,” she whispered, rising her head.</p><p>“Mmm?”</p><p>“I'm ready to take in your stories.”</p><p>“Shall we go back to the table then?” The moment I asked that, she lifted her knee. It pressed lightly against my crotch.</p><p>“I want to take <em>it</em> in, too.”</p><p>“Oh…” That was not how I imagined storytelling. Then again, there is a first time for everything.</p><p> </p><p>Palm rushed us out of the restaurant, as if it was going to explode, and galloped to the nearest taxi stand. I began to understand what was wrong with her – she had mood swings. Maybe she was bi-polar. Maybe she had a split personality. Not as severe as Alluka, but something of that sorts. Until then, her behaviour was commendable. It amazed me to see her so collected throughout the evening. It changed out of the blue, when we got into a cab. I couldn't take her hands off me. The moment we sat in the back seat, Palm gave the driver her address, and unzipped the dress. Seconds later, she straddled me. For half of the way, we were preoccupied with my shirt – she kept unbuttoning it, while I tried to button it back up. After the third round I gave up. It was better to go shirtless than pantless. Four times did Palm manage to unzip my fly, when she wasn't busy probing the inside of my mouth with her tongue. In the end, I pressed her flush to me, preventing her access to down there. Had to be mindful of that recorder. I grabbed some cash from my jacket's pocket, leaned forward, and showered the driver with enough Jenny to take us around Yorkshin until sunrise.</p><p>“Please, step on it,” I pleaded and the cab-driver sped up.</p><p>The acceleration pushed us further into the seat.</p><p>“Hold up, we are almost there,” I said, stroking her hair.</p><p>“I want you now,” Palm rasped.</p><p>She slid her hands behind my shirt, and squeezed my ribcage. Her thumbs moved up my chest, reached the tips of my nipples, and started twirling them around. I was well capable of cutting myself out from any stimuli, be it pleasant or painful. Still, a believable act yearned letting go of self-control. Just a little. My head flew to the back, as she tried to press my sensitive buttons further inside me. Clenched my teeth, not to make a sound. Palm alone got us covered in the noise-making department. Not that the cab-driver minded. A decent guy. He didn't raise a single complaint.</p><p>“I'm burning inside,” she whispered when our foreheads met. “Smother this fire, lest it turn the both of us to ashes.”</p><p>The woman even sounded different. It was Palm's voice, all right, yet it felt as if someone else was speaking through her. A more dangerous individual. A maniac who was little by little preparing to make her first kill. This is how madness progresses. It starts with destroying irrelevant things. The irrelevant things become more substantial ones. Until there is the ultimate test left – the human life. I looked at her – and a completely different woman looked back at me. The little girl I heard sobbing that morning? Gone. The respectful woman I dated that evening? Gone. All that had left, was the crazed arsonist starved for havoc. Her eye-liner smudged under the haunted eyes. A wicked grin on the pale face. Black curls in disarray. A textbook example of a mental patient.</p><p>When we arrived, Palm flew out of the cab like a victim of demonic possession. I tried to keep up, stumbling every third step. I was holding on to my clothes with one free hand – the other one locked in Siberia's firm grasp.</p><p>Her apartment sat on the third floor of an old-style tenement house. Back then, they deemed the representative function of the household the most essential. And thus, the architects designed enormous living rooms. Kitchens, bathrooms and bedrooms looked like an afterthought in comparison. For that reason, folks often moved the master bed to the main room. They decorated it with many plush pillows, frills, and coverlets, so it didn't stand out over the day. Palm was no different. Her bed was round and fluffy. Made me think of a cottage cheese for some reason. White covers, many cushions, many frills. It wouldn't be hard to hide the recorder behind all that decorative mass. Had to make sure, no one would take my pants off but me. They had to land within arm's reach.</p><p>We peeled the clothes off ourselves in no time. I placed my trousers where I wanted them to be – more or less – and fished out a condom. Palm snatched it out of my hand, and tossed it nonchalantly over her shoulder.</p><p>“No need for that. I want to <em>feel</em> your flame.”</p><p>My flame? If there ever was such a thing, it was a very dim and cold fire. And it burned for someone it never should be burning for in the first place. But Palm didn't have to know that.</p><p>Nor should she be worried about the lack of contraception. She was living on borrowed time anyway. I was much aware unprotected sex could spoil my perfect plan. For one, should she get inseminated, nausea would kick in, and my time bomb risked landing in a pool of puke. Even without that, there lingered a chance of Palm sticking her fingers into her throat to force a vomit out. Had no problems picturing her doing it to express how much she hated my guts. In any case, the worst scenario I faced, was to finish off a prisoner. I had the right connections to make it happen. Another likeliness – Nostrade only wanted the arsonist stopped, not necessarily dead. That he reached out to the Zoldycks, was due to the fact, that Pariston Hill wasn't a man of true dedication. Otherwise, his men would lock her up a long time ago. Wasn't that the outcome Light grew impatient of waiting for? But wasn't I splitting hairs there? This is exactly why being a perfectionist sucks. What were the odds of Miss Siberia coming out of this alive? Very slim, rubber or no rubber. It was time to let the obsessing over details go. If she slipped out, and Nostrade still craved her blood, I'd come after her, this time needles in hand. Simple as that.</p><p>“You've been through a lot,” Palm said, pulling me out from the vortex of my thoughts. Her fingertips ghosted along my old scars. I had far more of them, but they faded over time. Before my imprisonment, I treated the scars daily with Mirai's balm from forget-me-nots. It worked miracles.</p><p>Palm switched the lights off, and left it to the moonlight to illuminate the room. She released my hair from the ribbon, and pushed me on the soft bed.</p><p>I had several moments like that – let's call them: contemplative. The inevitability of death – suspended. The woman who was riding my manhood was as good as dead. Yet, she was so lively, had fantasies, and plans for the future. And I was the only one who knew better. Thoughts like that can put me in a weird state of mind. They also make me do things I can't explain. And so, I trailed my finger, starting from Palm's sighing lips, ran it along her throat, down her chest. I copied the path my cherry-bomb travelled to finally land in her stomach. I pressed my fingers against Palm's moving belly. She arched her spine, leaning to the back, so I leaned forward. Kissed her belly button and stuck my tongue into it. If you asked me, what I was doing, I wouldn't know what to say. Maybe I wanted to check if I could feel the seed on the other side. A silly idea like that. The poison was lurking there, so close, waiting to play its part. The proximity of it made me shiver. And harder. Palm purred, mistaking my caresses for a sign of affection.</p><p>“Tender.” She reached for my hand, and entangled our fingers. “Tell me how merciless these tender hands can be.”</p><p>The time had come to reverse positions. I turned us over, checking how close my suit pants were. They weren't close enough. Despite some drawbacks, there were many advantages of having a long hair. For instance, I could obscure one's vision, while making minor adjustments. I let my strands fall to the sides of Palm's blissful face, outstretched my arm, and yanked the pants closer. Made sure the pocket with the recorder was easily accessible. Only then I lowered myself to enter her, slowly, and started rocking my hips, in and out, a steady rate.</p><p>“There, like this.” She closed her eyes, taking in the heat cumulating between us. “How did you kill?”</p><p>“I assume you're interested in a more personal approach? There was this guy; I slit his wrist–” I buried my face in the curve of her neck, and added, “up to his elbow.”</p><p>“How else?”</p><p>I slowed down to think what kind of gore to share. It was too much, and something could go wrong. Palm placed her hands on my butt, and swiped me in, bucking her pelvis. “Don't stop,” she ordered.</p><p>“And one I strangled.” I opted for generalities, and began to plough faster, but not too fast, “Used his hair. He wore it long. Sort of like you and me.”</p><p>She liked the comparison. Palm smiled, her long lashes flickered.</p><p>“And one I pushed off the top of a 20th storey building. The moment he hit the street; he was treated to a passing truck.” I felt her thighs squeeze my sides. Pace increasing, I descended even lower, and whispered to her ear: “And one I poisoned. Served her toxin on my tongue. Never did she know what hit her.” I left a wet stripe on the side of her neck. Goosebumps appeared on the smooth skin. Palm was constricting around me. I could tell she was close.</p><p>“Have you–” she gasped. “Have you set someone on fire?”</p><p>“No. But I almost died in flames.” I shoved in harder, not gently at all, and she moaned. “An awful way to leave the scene. It would be my fate, if only the arsonist didn't forget to block the exit door.” And I placed a delicate kiss on her lip.</p><p>Next time she spoke, her voice sounded jagged, she was panting. We both were. I was close myself. "How el–” Her breath hitched.</p><p>“And countless times” – I rasped, applying more force to get us finally there – “I pulled their hearts out. With my– bare hands.”</p><p>Palm parted her lips, either to voice elation, or to speak again. I showed my fingers into her mouth. Had enough of her asking questions. The secretary sucked on my digits, and a second later she let out a feverish cry. Her face contorted in ecstasy, the body trembled. Palm's fist twisted the sheet, clinging to it like it were a lifebuoy and she were drowning.</p><p>When we were both spent, and laid next to each other, Palm turned on the lamp on the night stand. She opened a drawer, and rummaged inside, until she found a cigarette and a lighter.</p><p>“Do you know you grit your teeth when you come?” she asked buoyantly, and lit her puff. “That's cute.”</p><p>I knew it. Left it without a comment. Instead, I reached over my head, pretending to stretch. Palpated around the place, searching for my trousers. Found it, slipped the recorder out of the pocket, and pressed the record button. I placed the device between pillows, close enough.</p><p>“Where does that love for flames come from, if you don't mind me asking?” I inquired. “The Wish Master cares to share her own story?”</p><p>Palm blew the smoke into the ceiling, and watched it dissipate in the nothingness.</p><p>“Two years ago” – she began – “we were renting an apartment in a crumbling, mouldy block, me and Knov. One day, our gas installation started leaking. The whole place blew up. We weren't home when it happened. And so, we had to clean up the mess, and find a new place. Knov took time off work to help me. Two weeks. It was the longest we were together. Only me and him.”</p><p>She gulped. I checked her face. No tears any more. Palm continued:</p><p>“The happiest time of my life. When things went back to normal, when Knov was absent more than he was present, the fire was the only reminder. Some childish part of me believed, flames will bring him back to me, much like they did then. Of course, it never happened.” Her hand was shaking when she moved the smoke to her mouth. “It went downhill pretty fast, huh? At first, I thought, there's no harm in that. Nobody cared about the rubble anyway. And the flames kept me hopeful. Soon, fire took Knov's place in my heart. It always has time for me. It will appear any day, and stay for as long as I sustain it. But along the way, I uh-” Palm scratched her cheek in a hectic motion, as if some unpleasant realization hit her. “What I'm trying to say is, I've become more vitriolic. You know?”</p><p>“I get the picture.” Oh, if only Knov knew. Then again, he <em>would</em> know soon enough. Some poured their aching heart into other people, animals, or objects of sentimental value. But to confide in an element of ruin? This could only end one way. “Any reason for torching two Nostrade's properties in a row? Did he get under your skin?”</p><p>“No particular reason. He didn't draw the lucky candy, I guess.”</p><p>“You are some piece of work,” I said facetiously, burying my nose in her hair. “Morel is losing sleep trying to catch the firestarter. How one becomes such a cunning sparkle?”</p><p>She chuckled. “I use time bombs once in a while. Rig the place with explosives, set the clock, so that it detonates when I am in the office.”</p><p>“Crafty.”</p><p>We were lying on the fluff, sweat cooling down on our skin. I tried to think if there was anything else worth asking. What I garnered so far, seemed sufficient.</p><p>“I didn't forget to block the door,” Palm spoke unexpectedly. “I intended to leave it open. Deep inside, I never lost hope. And I was right. You are my soul mate.”</p><p>"Impossible.” I placed a kiss on her forehead, lifting one hand to stop the recorder. „I have no soul.”</p><p>I stood up to get dressed.</p><p>“Going so soon?” she asked with a sad undertone.</p><p>“As much as I'd like to stay, I'm still a convict. Kurapika doesn't hear from me for too long, and he'll go ballistic.”</p><p>“You can call him from the booth in the hall.” She looked me in the eye with longing.</p><p>Soon, Palm would be cursing the ground I walked on. I grabbed the recorder, and swiftly slid it in my pocket. Smiled at her until I was buttoned up, and presentable enough to go outside.</p><p>“I'll be back in a few,” I said. <em>But I won't be coming back alone</em> – I thought. “Detective Kurapika fancies patronizing me. It may take a while.”</p><p>Palm nodded, got up, and moved to her wardrobe. I darted down the stairs, rewinding the cassette. There was a phone booth outside, and it was empty. I locked myself inside, and retrieved the second recorder. The sound quality was splendid. Used Milluki's device for the original recording – that one for the client. And the copy for Morel. The moment I had Palm's words immortalized on the second device, I called headquarters. Told the receptionist I had information on the arsonist. She asked me to wait, and a few seconds later I heard a familiar voice:</p><p>“Morel Mackernasey, what is it?” No joyfulness. Only sleepiness.</p><p>“It's Yellmi, detective. Could you come over here, and arrest Palm?”</p><p>“Yellmi? Palm? Wow-wow-wow! Hold your horses. What's going on?”</p><p>“She tried to kill me,” I said. In truth, I didn't hold it against her. But it was too convenient not to use it. It let me close the job looking half-innocent. Like a victim. Almost. “You must have heard from Knuckle and Shoot. Or Leorio.”</p><p>“Yeah. The doc said something about you being caught in– Wait. Palm is– ?!”</p><p>“She is the firestarter. I figured, no one would believe a convict. So, I recorded her admitting it.” I played the tape, then listened to the dead silence on the other side.</p><p>“She expects you called the cops?” Morel spoke finally. His voice quivered. Disquiet. Not an easy task before him. To jail the secretary was one thing. To convey that message to Knov was another. How would the vanishing man take it? He might just pull all his hair out, and lose sanity himself – was most likely what crept into the detective's mind.</p><p>“She doesn't. Hurry up.”</p><p>I gave Morel the address and waited. It took him 10 minutes to show up. He was speeding. He came alone. No flashing the emergency lights, nor sirens. All quiet. The detective pulled over, like a man coming back home after a tiresome shift. There were handcuffs in his hand. I tossed him the cassette recorder. He listened to it, sighed, and motioned at me to lead the way. We climbed up the stairs to collect the criminal. Miss Siberia was smoking, sitting behind the coffee table. She wore a fluffy white dressing gown.</p><p>What happened next was predictable. The moment Palm understood I sold her out, she began acting. Morel cut it short, playing her words back at her. One small cornered mouse. It was game over. The moment Palm realized it, she started to spit bile. She called me names, wished me dead, and – much to my delight – confessed regretting leaving that exit opened.</p><p>“You should have suffocated and kick the bucket, you vermin!” she said between her teeth.</p><p>Palm's wild outburst got Morel upset even more. The woman behaved like a model psycho.</p><p>“You're not helping your case,” he reasoned. “Palm, cool it, for crying out loud.”</p><p>But Palm wasn't listening. Right then she became a portal through which pure hatred bled into our world. She hissed, and jumped at me, fingers clenched like claws, ready to poke my eyes out. I took a graceful step to the side, and tripped her up. Palm face-planted on her bed. Morel didn't give her a second chance. He shook his head and cuffed her. Miss Siberia screamed at the top of her lungs, cursing everything and everyone. But me in particular. Soon, she was out of steam, lying flat on her stomach, catching breath. The show was over. The only thing left for me to do, was to call 'the Residence', and report the status of the job.</p><p>I waved them bye-bye, when Morel drove the defeated firestarter to her cell. Went back to the phone booth, slipped the no-pay coin in, and dialled the special Zoldyck number. I pressed the receiver to my ear, and only then noticed, it started raining again. The booth's glass got spotted with raindrops in the blink of an eye.</p><p>“The Residence,” Canary's voice answered me.</p><p>“Isolated the heat. Slow-acting extinguisher in delivery.”</p><p>“Understood.”</p><p>We hanged up at the same moment.</p><p>The Yorkshin rain liked to come at night. The Yorkshin nights were chilly on principle, and damp almost as often. Even during late summer. No wonder everything was decaying there. Water is life, but apply too much of it, and it can kill you. Whoever was taking a stroll under the cloudy sky, retracted to a dry place. No cab in sight. I left my trench coat and fedora home. Home? Could it be, that Mizaistom's hospitality began to grow on me?</p><p>I sighed, preparing to get soaked in a split second. It started raining cats and dogs. A heavy stream poured down showing no mercy, as if someone up there wanted us all drowned. Sometimes I wondered whom the sky was weeping for. Palm? Possible. Knov? That one for sure. Me? Unlikely. I felt no guilt. Never.</p><p>Behind me a car was approaching. It stopped abruptly, splashing growing puddles to the sides. I turned around to meet Shoot's worried eyes and Knuckle's pissed ones.</p><p>“Get your ass in the vehicle, princess,” my guardian angel of fury said. “Don't like your face, but I figured, I'd like it even less with long big snots, dangling from that nose.”</p><p>I sat in the back seat, and we steered towards headquarters. Wasn't it a good day, through and through?</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The next morning a different atmosphere hoovered over the station. People were silent, moods were down, the typical murmur on the corridors non-existent. The news about Palm's incarceration spread fast. The only person who seemed unaffected was Kite. He kept digging in the material evidence, if he wasn't chasing from one lab to another, some sample or research results always in hand.</p><p>Not only the police main station was quiet. So was the bug on Kill. I saw his dot moving on the radar. But he was alone now, trying to get close to me, so there was nothing to eavesdrop on. I left the tape for Nostrade on the balcony, secured in a plastic bag. Kalluto never betrayed his presence, as long as I was in the room.</p><p>Strolled down to the morgue, but Machi didn't have any word from Chrollo yet. Seemed like I had a day off. I remembered the bookcase in Kurapika's office. Could at least borrow something to read. The day was rainy anyway. A lazy summer day. To everyone's discontent, a couple of times the sun managed to cut through thick covers of weeping clouds. The moment the light illuminated the city, it gave everything it touched a greenish sickly glow. You felt like throwing up. The temperature was high. The air was sticky. Taking it in, was like inhaling a dense concoction of mould mixed with Yorkshin special brand of dirt. You coughed it out, and it threatened to materialize, curse your name, and run away. Best not to go outside.</p><p>Kurta congratulated me on aiding Morel with catching the arsonist. Told him I reached out to associates well versed in law. Assured him, they would be more than capable of getting Tserriednich exposed. No names, though. Kurapika got my hint. As well as the other one – sometimes working means waiting. I could try knocking on different doors, but there was no point to it. The Troupe was the best solution Yorkshin had to offer for such a task. And so, Kurapika let me see his books. Not to my surprise, it was mostly criminal and action novels. A couple of tomes on law and police procedures. One cooking book. A mushroom lexicon. Few titles on psychology and how to treat trauma. Sometimes too much of a choice is a pain. In the end, I grabbed the book on fungus.</p><p>Before I sat in my armchair, I glanced at the balcony. The evidence of the job done was gone.</p><p>Early in the evening I heard knocking. It was Morel and Leorio. I received an official invitation for a night full of drinks at 'Terpsichora.' Knov took Palm's imprisonment very bad. So, they deemed that the only way to sooth his pain, was getting him intoxicated senseless. I said 'okay', and got ready for the night out.</p><p>Knov looked horrible. He got 30 years older in a span of few hours. His dark hair was disorderly, deep shadows under his eyes, sunken cheeks. And he was tanked already.</p><p>The six of us set out for the club: Knov, Morel, Leorio, Hisoka, Kite and I. The vanishing man wasn't very talkative. Morel had to help him walk straight. Knov wanted to pass out in our company, was all. I could only imagine, coming back to the empty apartment was as painful for him, as entering the empty office. The memory of Palm wherever he looked. When our darlings disappear so abruptly, even the silence seems to speak with their voice. It also looked like Knov harboured no hard feelings towards me. After all, justice was served. If I weren't so tricky to kill, I'd be the firestarter's first casualty.</p><p>'Terpsichora' was 30 minutes drive from headquarters. Nothing spectacular, but we weren't there to admire interiors. It had a vast dance floor in the middle, surrounded by tables and alcoves for the guests. The music played pretty loud – typical for such places. The lighting was scarce, as if the owners cared only to illuminate the bar and its promise of many beverages. There was also a spotlight over the instruments on the band platform. However, there was no live band playing. The music came from recordings.</p><p>We had a beer after beer, chitchatting about matters of little importance. It took half an hour for Knov to drift away. He was snoring, head on the table, squeezed between Morel and Kite. When people talk crap to kill time, all sorts of weird topics surface. It started with Kite. He noticed Hisoka smelled like he had cherry juice coursing through his veins, and not blood. He added the stench was so strong, that it could already trigger an allergy in some folks. This led Morow to list his favourite sweets. From there guys quarrelled over which bakery in Yorkshin was the best. For most of us, the distinctions between them were negligible, but Leorio was of a different mind.</p><p>“The Cookie Cutter has the best quality produce,” he said, lifting one finger up. “Old recipes, no artificial sweeteners, no chemical additions. The Cookie Cutter wins, hands down. You want some sugar that won't give you atherosclerosis in no time, buy there. Doctor's advice.”</p><p>He said that, and moments later Machi manifested beside our table. She patted loaded Knov on the shoulder blade, and asked if she could steal her assistant for a while. Hisoka excused himself, and they vanished from our view.</p><p>Yet, the themes Morow instigated lingered. Soon it was about cops and doughnuts.</p><p>“You can't escape the sad reality,” Kite said. “Things like that aren't born out of thin air. If you, coppers, didn't devour so many doughnuts, people wouldn't make fun of you.”</p><p>“Fighting crime is tough,” Morel defended his copper's pride. “You need energy for that and a lot of it. Sugar equals energy. Don't believe me? You tell them, doc.”</p><p>“Well,” Leorio straightened his back to appear important. He was already dizzy. The good doctor had a weak head. “Can't deny that.”</p><p>Kite's mouth moved soundlessly. Leorio noticed it, corrected his shades, and asked in a joking fashion:</p><p>“What was that? I have all reasons to believe you called me names!”</p><p>“He said 'traitor',” I informed kindly.</p><p>Kite tossed me a surprised look, and then cracked a one-sided smile. And just like that, he wasn't surprised any more. As if he possessed some secret insight. The technician was inscrutable and creepy in his own right; much like his painting.</p><p>“No way!” Leorio exclaimed. “You can lip-read.”</p><p>“I sure can.”</p><p>“What am I saying?” Leorio formed his mouth into a soundless sentence.</p><p>“'No way you can lip-read,'” I said.</p><p>Leorio's grin widened. The unlit cig almost fell out. The doc appeared agitated. He moved closer to me in one fast, overexcited motion. “Can you–” he looked around, like a spy on a mission. Leorio was funny like that. “Can you teach me?”</p><p>'You need to trust doctors, boy.' Zeno's voice rang in my ears. 'It's always preferable to be on good terms with a healer.'</p><p>“Why not,” I said. It was dark where we sat. Good for the vanishing man who was slumbering, half hanging on the table, half sitting on the bench. But the basics of lip-reading demanded brighter space. The band platform seemed illuminated enough. “Let's move to the dance floor, over there. I'll show you how to read lips on my example first.”</p><p>“Won't that look suspicious, I mean... two guys dancing?” asked the man who sported the beginnings of a boner when he was giving me the best massage I had in years.</p><p>“People often mistake me for a woman.” I ruffled my hair up. “Don't worry. Nobody will care.”</p><p>Leorio leaned in, and pressed my hair to the sides of my face, smoothing them out. When he was satisfied with the effect, he nodded. It could be the alcohol, or his radiant personality, yet he seemed genuinely happy at the prospect of learn something new.</p><p>“Let's go” he said.</p><p>We approached the bright splotch of light near the instruments. The music was fast and loud. We followed the rhythm languidly, bobbing our heads only so. First, I reached to his mouth, removed the unlit cig, and tossed it on the floor somewhere.</p><p>“Start with the proper mindset,” I said, raising my voice over the clamour. “Get ready to substitute what you're unable to understand. Context matters, patterns, and an ability to fill in the gaps. They will inevitably occur, so don't get discouraged. Now watch my lips.”</p><p>I said 'My name's Illumi' quickly, and Leorio said: “Caught only your name at the end. But don't know what came before that.”</p><p>“Told you to substitute. Let's try again.” I repeated the phrase, only this time pointed at myself.</p><p>“Oh, you introduced yourself.”</p><p>“That's right. Never forget to watch the body language, Leorio. It's the integral part of reading lips. Now this one.” I mouthed the next sentence as fast as the previous one, jabbing my finger at his chest. And he guessed right.</p><p>“You said, 'And your name's Leorio.'”</p><p>“Correct. And how did you know that?”</p><p>“I only got my name clear. But your pointing at me helped.”</p><p>“The context is another thing. A person points at the new-born baby, it's safe to assume they are not talking about a funeral. Don't expect words to ring in your ears the moment you know how the mouth form when a certain sound is emitted. It's a guesswork most of the time. And if someone has a long beard or moustache, you can forget about reading their lips altogether.”</p><p>Leorio was attentively observing my lips, while I explained the fundamentals. 'I. Think. I. Got. It.' – was, what his mouth formed into.</p><p>“That's great to hear.” I smiled at the unintended joke. “You don't have to speak slowly for me. I'm a seasoned lip-reader. Okay, let's rise the difficulty level now.”</p><p>I looked around for guests who were engaged in a conversation, not too far away from us, but not too close either. The bar seemed the best spot to begin. Out of the sudden, the lights went dim. For a heart beat, a pitch-black darkness fell over us. And then, my favourite song started playing. The one about killing strangers. Noticed a man and a woman sitting by the brightly lit bar. They were singing along to the lyrics.</p><p>“The guys over there, watch their lips,” I said, nodding at the pair. “Use me as an excuse to stare at them. If they notice you, act as if you were looking at them without seeing them, if you catch my drift.” Leorio bowed his head, and burrowed his nose in my hair. The motion was a bit stiff, but yeah, he got the point. “They seem to have fun. Follow the lyrics, and watch them sing to it. I'll be swaying here to my favourite tune.”</p><p>“Gotcha,” he said.</p><p>I leaned my back against Leorio, and let his arms wrap around me. We rocked leisurely to the march-like tact. Could feel his lips move next to my ear, when he repeated the words. Leorio was concentrated. The couple – oblivious to the medic using them for training. I closed my eyes, allowing the sound to carry me away.</p><p>At a certain point Leorio snorted in my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “She said 'La-la-la,'” he informed, happy with his progress.</p><p>True, it was hardly the melody for lalala-ing. “See?” I spoke. “You are already doing it. It takes practice. But that's the start.”</p><p>“I think I've nailed the vowels. I hate the lyrics, though.”</p><p>“Mmm.”</p><p>Yes, he seemed the type who'd hate that kind of lyrics. But the sound itself? – that was an entirely different animal. It was enchanting, and soon Leorio lost himself in it as well. I was on another planet with that piece myself. The only work of art I ever came close to <em>feeling</em>. From there on, it was only me, swaying to the tune among the sea of strangers. Picking up the notes of regret and sorrow. It's odd how these things can resonate within a person. Something in my heart pinched every time the singer's voice exclaimed this very truth. Some of us directed their violence towards random folks so as not to turn it against the loved ones. This is how I knew, I had a heart to speak of. Maybe I used to be compassionate? Or a version of me, in some alternate reality? That mournful yell of an accursed man was the only thing capable of bringing my other, never realized self to the surface. He drifted close enough to have a peak inside the realm of endless possibilities. That didn't mean I wished to change my ways. I am a man of dedication. My path suited me well. The other me under the rippled surface submerged back into the depths each time the melody stopped flowing. Nobody missed him. Neither did I.</p><p>When the music ended, Leorio was still holding on to me, his cheek pressed to the side of my face, eyes closed. He was taller than I by quite a margin, so he had to bend a little.</p><p>“Is that enough for one lesson?” I asked, emerging from the ocean of tranquillity.</p><p>Leorio blinked, and cleared his throat, looking for a cig he could shove back in the corner of his mouth.</p><p>“Yup. We can return to the others. I'll be practising on Kite.” And he washed his hands with invisible soap. Sorry, Kite.</p><p>We appeared back at the table. Leorio started boasting, and threatening that soon there would be not a cuss, not a slur that the technician could toss at him unpunished. A bit over-the-board assumption, but the guys were having fun. During our absence Hisoka came back. He was eyeballing me from behind slitted eyelids. Whatever Machi told him got Morow excited.</p><p>When Knov slid down to the floor, Morel called it a day. He lifted his companion's lifeless form, and left the club. Leorio and Kite soon followed.</p><p>Hisoka kept looking at me, or rather through me. There was some beer at the bottom of his glass. He moved it in a circular motion. His fingers were twitching a little. Morow was tipsy, but not by much. Something on his mind.</p><p>“What's up with the shaky hand?” I asked. “You high?”</p><p>“Is it that bad?” He scrutinized his hand. It was still trembling. “Can't help it. For your information, I don't do drugs often. Nothing compares to the kick a good fight provides. Or a good bounce.”</p><p>I raised my eyebrows in question.</p><p>“Just received a reliable lead on number four's location,” he explained.</p><p>“Oh. Soon to become one of the Troupe?”</p><p>“Everything points to it. And the guy himself–” Morow narrowed his eyes, and licked the rim of his glass. “He's strong.”</p><p>“Best of luck,” I said.</p><p>We clinked our mugs. I downed my alco, and put the emptied glass on the table with louder din than I intended. Instantaneously I felt a bit light-headed.</p><p>“Tampered with my drink?” I asked.</p><p>Hisoka confirmed, smiled, and sipped his beer. I said nothing, only shook my head. It wasn't hard to foresee, that he would try to put my words to the test. Whatever he added there, it kicked in fast, but wore off even faster. Got up to leave, when I heard him speak:</p><p>“Hey, detective. Read my lips.”</p><p>I lowered my stare to watch him say: 'Put your P in my A.'</p><p>“I owe you for helping me with the bug,” I said tonelessly. “But you don't want to trade that favour for something as trivial.” I turned and moved to the exit.</p><p>The whole day it rained. The streets were still wet. The Heavy smell of damp concrete rose from steaming pavement tiles. The air was cool. With the weather like that, the wind always seemed colder than it really was. The clouds were clearly visible, grey, pregnant with another deluge. It would come down on Yorkshin night owls' heads while they least expected it. Better to find myself in my apartment before that happened.</p><p>I put my collar up, and crossed the empty, silent street, headed for the cab stand. Checked the watch-like radar on my wrist. The bug hadn't moved for five hours. Kill must have trashed the shirt.</p><p>I felt him on the breeze, before I even saw him. Mr. Morow bolted out of the club, and raced after me. For a short while, his quick footsteps were the only sound filling the stillness of that Yorkshin night. Then, somewhere remote, a cat meowed, and hissed, chased by a dog's barking. Never had a chance to turn around. Hisoka bumped onto me, wrapping his arms around my midsection. I leaned forward, bent in half, like a pocket knife. The cherry stench invaded my senses, when I heard him pant behind me:</p><p>“Unkind of you to turn your back on me mid-conversation, toots. You seem to have the equipment.” He groped my crotch in one bold move of his hand. “Don't tell me you're impotent.”</p><p>I could've confirmed, to get him off my case once and for all. If only I were a liar. It wasn't a question anyway. Assumption at best. It didn't need to be answered.</p><p>“Leave me be.” I pushed him away, and resumed my march towards the cab stand. There is never a car available when you need it. Hisoka kept sticking to me. Like a nasty chewing gum you stepped onto, and it clung to your shoe sole. The only difference – that one was overheated, and reeked of artificial cherry sweetener.</p><p>“What does it take, to make you look at me the way you did at Leorio?” he breathed out the heated air into my ear. “I'm <em>so</em> jelly. Want me to cut my hair shorter, dye it black, and put on some fancy shades? Will that turn you on?”</p><p>“Don't know what you're on about. Let go. You are drunk.”</p><p>“It has never stopped me before.” Hisoka rolled his hips tellingly. His bulge rubbed against my ass.</p><p>“I said <em>let go.</em>” My needle brushed the spot on his neck where the artery worked, pumping aroused blood. “I can't kill you right now, but I will kill you later if you don't stop this instant.”</p><p>“Playing hard to get?” Hisoka's arms dropped to his sides. Yellow eyes were burning holes in the back of my head. The first warning sign, and I swept it aside. Was too busy checking if Milluki's spying device showed the useless signal from the discarded bug. It did. No point in checking it any more.</p><p>“Okay,” I heard Hisoka say behind me. Despite his voice being soft and jocund, there was a tell-tale edge to it. “I'll play your game.”</p><p>I mentioned once that my intuition rarely misleads me. The moment he said that, an icy chill crept down my spine. I received two warning signs. Ignored them all. You don't do that to your instincts, otherwise you're asking for trouble. The thing he wanted from me wasn't that much of a deal. I could call it a favour granted, and let him. I owed him. Still, it didn't cross my mind anyone would want <em>that</em> as a payment. Not, when they could ask for something of far greater merit should the bad times arrive. The world never ceases to surprise, even if you thought you've seen it all. Little did I realize to what lengths one could go when sating one's senses was a driving factor.</p><p>It was a peaceful and quiet night, all things considered. It was also the night when you waited for a cab rather than the other way around.</p><p>“Sir,” I heard a girl speak far behind me. “Do you want me to tell you your f–” Her voice got cut off.</p><p>“Why, of course,” Hisoka replied. He was jovial and fake, and bad to your health, like cotton candy. “Let me show you your fortune first, sweetheart.”</p><p>Were I in her shoes, I'd start running. But it was oddly silent back there. I looked over my shoulder. The girl with blue hair was gradually vanishing into the shadows of the alley. Hisoka's pale hand covered her mouth; his lips stretched in an obnoxious smile. Both disappeared in the passageway before the approaching taxi's headlights managed to reach them.</p><p>I raised my hand to stop the car, and let myself in the back seat.</p><p>“Where to?” the driver asked.</p><p>“To the police main station, please.”</p><p>We drove past the alleyway. I didn't bother checking it. It was too dark anyway.</p><p>“Do you think the Cookie Cutter bakery is still opened at this hour?” I asked instead.</p><p>“I suppose,” the driver replied.</p><p>“Would you mind if we stopped by?”</p><p>“Sure thing, officer.”</p><p>The useless radar kept burning my skin. I couldn't forget about it. I kept checking it, even if I knew it was pointless. Soon, I forgot about Hisoka, and focused – yet again – on the thing I had no longer any use for. I knew Kill was on a mission to find me. Still, I couldn't bear the thought that I had no clue how close he got. So, there I was, sitting in a cab, mourning the loss of insight into my brother's whereabouts. Completely oblivious to a lesson that was awaiting me. It was that sort of lesson, you learn the hard way.</p><p>They say you don't put out fire with fire, yet it is not always true. Since everything in nature is there for a reason, deviants like Hisoka also serve a purpose. Speaking of lessons-to-be-learned, every once in a while, it takes one perversion to root out another.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Fear and loathing in Yorkshin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Turned out Leorio was spot on. The Cookie Cutter bakery offered exquisite sweets. High price isn't always a valid indicator of quality. Yet, this time it all matched up. They even made the original Chocorobos. 'The long-forgotten recipe' – a note on the exposition advertised. Kill didn't have those yet. Kids nowadays. Chasing after novelties, forgetting about the superb source. And things tend to get corrupted the more experiments they undergo. So, I bought him a box of the originals for our upcoming reunion. For myself I got a classic glazed doughnut with an old-style rose jam filling. Yummy. Boy, wasn't I happy for those calories. Didn't know they'd keep me going for a few more hours before breakfast.</p><p>It was around half past 3 a.m. when I began to bury myself under the soft quilt in my tiny bedroom. Knocking on the door disturbed the night. I didn't lock it, so not to my surprise, it squeaked open. The blond head peeked inside. The reddened eyes found me; the lower half of my face already covered.</p><p>“Yellmi,” Kurapika said. “The Headsman killed again. Let's go.”</p><p>It was a good thing I could go without sleep for days, and still keep my head screwed on right.</p><p> </p><p>Knuckle and Shoot drove us to where the next murder victim was found. He dumped the body under a small decorative bridge in the Lovers Park, Red Lights district. Even though it was getting brighter, it was still too early for onlookers to gather. There were only cops, the technician and a couple of his assistants. Kite placed two reflector lamps on the sides of the casualty to get all the details lit. The light was sharp and piercing-white – made the crime scene look otherworldly. The colours became juicier, the gloss of the covers blinding to the eyes. Even grass appeared greener. You could see moss and moisture building on rocks on the bridge's underside. The scene was already barred with police tape and two rows of officers.</p><p>“You won't like it, Yellmi.” Kite made it sound, as if I found the previous Headsman kills appealing.</p><p>But it wasn't what he insinuated. The technician pointed me towards a small package dangling on a black leash. It held on a nail hammered into the rock wall where the bridge descended in a curve to connect with the ground. The latest victim's head, already covered under a black plastic baggy. I approached it, knelt, and stretched my arms to cup it. Before I as much as touched it, Kite slapped my hands with a pair of white latex gloves.</p><p>“Put them on before you mess with the evidence,” he ordered.</p><p>I did, and then yanked the cover off the head. What looked back at me, was a tranquil, pretty face. The skin – smooth and white, eyes big and black, half-opened. Long eyelashes. Thin arches of brows raised as if in a mild surprise. High cheekbones, high forehead, small lips. A long jet-black hair. A spiked collar aside, she could be my twin sister.</p><p>“Striking resemblance,” Kurapika stated an undeniable fact, watching the head over my shoulder.</p><p>“I hope not,” Kite disagreed. “Unless Yellmi turned his nether regions into a storage room for broken glass.”</p><p>“What?” Kurapika was startled. So was I, but it didn't show. Leaving presents inside corpses wasn't typical for Tserriednich.</p><p>“Some sharp bits escape from the victim's crotch,” Kite replied. “Machi will have to cut her open to check if there's anything else.”</p><p>“That's unlike his previous kills,” Kurapika was thinking aloud.</p><p>I noticed two bulges deforming the smooth line of the deceased woman's gorge. “There is something in her throat too,” I said.</p><p>“Keen eyes,” Kite commended. “It's a scrotum. If you open her mouth, you'll see the rest of it.”</p><p>He tossed me a tiny flashlight. I parted the livid lips, and shone some light inside. Kurapika leaned in for a better look. A purplish penis' head stared back at us from the victim's mouth.</p><p>“Disgusting.” Kurta swallowed hard. He pressed the back of his hand against his lips. “Can he get any sicker?”</p><p>“The question is” – the technician's voice sounded close to my ear. He was gawking at the mouth's inside alongside us – “whom this other part belonged to?”</p><p>“That would make two victims.” The detective rubbed his forehead with his thumb. Incoming headache. “Not good.”</p><p>“In theory, the dong's owner can still be alive,” Kite said. “Many got castrated and lived.”</p><p>“Stop talking. Make sure I'll get the full documentation.” Kurapika moved to check the rest of the casualty.</p><p>I put the head back how I found it before joining the detective. The remains were already placed on the black plastic sheet, ready to be zipped and taken to the morgue. Much like the other bodies, the once graceful form had been meticulously vandalized. We knelt beside it, looking at the contorted limbs. Spine broken in at least three places. Bones protruding here and there. Countless swells and puddles of violet, blue, brown and yellow. A maltreated human anatomy offered a limited tints palette. But what it <em>did</em> offer, it was all displayed on the woman's corpse. Her inner thighs – scratched. A nails scratch came to mind. The bloody trail ended where the crotch began. Little glistering bits laid below it, as if from a broken drinking glass. I took the larger one, and revolved it between my fingers. That one came from a mirror.</p><p>“At least we know what this refers to.” Kurapika nodded towards the head. “How are you so collected? Doesn't this disturb you in the slightest?</p><p>“It doesn't.” I pressed the bruised underbelly. There were other hard objects there. Machi had an interesting day ahead of her.</p><p>“I wish I were so calm.” Scarlet Eyes massaged the bridge of his nose. “Shit. I can still see his morbid installation, even with my eyes closed.”</p><p>“On the bright side, this is as good as Tserriednich admitting he is the Headsman,” I said. “He is communicating now. Isn't this an advancement?”</p><p>“He speaks symbols only the two of us understand. His new victim looking like you is no proof for the court. If he murders my mirror image next, it won't help the case either. What you've found about his past in Wobbly's is the best we've got so far. But why has he changed his modus operandi? Is he getting sloppy or is this overconfidence?”</p><p>“A small panic attack.” No doubt in my mind about it. “How I see it: Hui Guo Rou is much aware the law enforcement is unable to expose him, playing by the rules. Back there, in the gallery, I let him on my true identity. It could be a mistake on my part. Chanced it, to check if the prince would recognize my family name. He did. And now, Tserriednich knows you are resorting to dubious means to bring his hobby to light.”</p><p>“That makes sense,” Kurta said. “In his eyes, you are an enigma. A big, haunting question mark. So, he knows we are playing dirty now. What he doesn't know is how low we are willing to stoop. He may suspect I'm desperate enough to consider an assassination. And so, Hui Guo Rou found solace in killing a lookalike of the person involved in the investigation, whom he fears the most. I'd call it getting sloppy.”</p><p>“And personal,” I added. “Yup, he's losing his cool. He'll make more mistakes.”</p><p>Scarlet Eyes looked me over. “Told Mizaistom you'll turn out useful.”</p><p>“Taking me on was your idea?”</p><p>“It was. Not an easy call to make. Came late to me, too. Fighting one criminal with the help of another? It isn't exactly how the law enforcement should operate. Then again, I knew we were completely powerless against my two best suspects. Told Mizaistom straight off that we won't catch the culprit without bending the rules. He agreed. Then we selected several convicts he deemed the best to see this investigation over.”</p><p>“What advantage did I hold over the others?”</p><p>Kurapika thought for a moment before he answered: “I have no delusion about this rotten city. It's full of degenerates, and most of them walk free. But among those who get jailed, it is most rare to see one holding to any values whatsoever. As much as I despise your clan, I approve of loyalty. And you seem to value your family above everything else.”</p><p>No disagreement there.</p><p>“The privilege of taking care of my loved ones has been taken away from me. For the most part. This sentiment of mine could have also played a role in me choosing you. Besides, you have the right ties, the mindset, and motivation to stay loyal to <em>me</em>.” Kurta sighed. “This is how we got ourselves into this mess. Funny, that. Usually, Hui Guo Rous of this world hire people like you to stop people like me, if we get too close. Let my spy's fate serve as the best example.”</p><p>“It's a good thing then that people like me work for people like you in this case. I could still kill him, you know.” I'm sure I sounded like a broken record to his ear then. What can I say? Hope is the last one to die.</p><p>“We've had this conversation before.” Kurapika's reddened eyes smiled at me, even if his face remained demure. “Helping the cause by forging strong evidence will be the furthest we'll go against the letter of the law.”</p><p>He said that, but none of us knew back then how wrong he was.</p><p>And then Kurapika's lips smiled as well. Tserriednich acted outside his MO to get under our skin. He started slipping. The detective had his moment of glory. It only took my lookalike to get beheaded, stuffed with cracked glass, and fed dick.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It was eight in the morning when we got back to headquarters. Those few hours of sleep I hoped for were forfeit.</p><p>Before we managed to enter the police station, Colt got us all scattered to the sides. He was speeding in his police car again, much like he did the first time I saw him. And much like then, he stopped on the pavement, tires screeching. Another junkie got thrown out of the back seat, face-first. A skinny guy in his twenties. Some black lines framed the sides of his mouth – a watered-down eye-liner. His eyes were darting to the sides in erratic motions. A mess of short sand hair on his head.</p><p>“You can't catch me. I'm too fast!” the kid cheered, sprawled on the pavement, thin legs running in the air, getting him nowhere.</p><p>“You've just been caught, twerp,” Colt grumbled, and pulled the arrestee up by his cuffed arms.</p><p>The twitchy youngster kept working his legs, all quivering as if he had bugs crawling under his skin.</p><p>“Hold the doors for me, fellas,” Colt asked, and Knuckle obliged.</p><p>“No,” the kid disagreed. “I'm still on the run. Look at me gooo!”</p><p>Colt mumbled something under his nose, and manoeuvred him to the cells.</p><p>On the lab's level Kurapika and I met with Mizaistom's tormented visage.</p><p>“She'll be here any moment,” he said in a sorrowful voice. A straw danced from one corner of his mouth to another. A nervous jitter to it.</p><p>Whereas I was in the dark about what worried my captor so, Kurapika seemed to read his mind. “What do you want us do?” he asked.</p><p>“Say nothing. Let me do the talking. Sit still and look pretty, both of you.”</p><p>The three of us entered Mizaistom's office. We sat in silence for well over five minutes. I didn't bother asking what was it that they were sweating about. Figured, I'd learn soon enough. The lieutenant was lacing and unlacing his fingers. Kurapika watched the empty wall behind me – his mouth formed into a beak, as if he intended to start whistling. He never did, though. Finally, the door opened. No knocking. A massive silhouette towered in the entrance, casting a deep shadow on our bunch. It was none other than prosecutor Biscuit Krueger. I saw her several times during my trial – she was a sight that once seen was impossible to unsee.</p><p>Krueger marched into the office like a one-man execution squad. She was enormous; not overweight, far from it. There was not a gram of redundant fat on her. Yet, she had muscles that many body-builders would die for. A strong jaw, thick neck, broad shoulders, wide chest. Her abdomen – as if moulded from steel. You punched it, and you risked breaking your fist. She could body a regular man without breaking a sweat. If Bisky arm-wrestled against Morel, I'd have a hard time deciding on whom to bet. Even if she wore loose clothes – a white shirt, jeans jacket and trousers – her frame was too imposing to overlook.</p><p>The prosecutor also had a kink. She appreciated handsome boys – be it the ones dancing on poles in strip clubs, or smiling from pages of naughty magazines. The woman wasn't ugly either. Still, it was a far cry from the standard notion of femininity. The prosecutor's blond, curly hair was the only girlish thing about her. Other than that, Krueger was a merciless foe of crime and criminals. The Zoldycks held a special place in her heart. Rumour had it, my dad was the sole reason for her loathing us above the other evildoers. I never confirmed if it stood on firm footing. Or I never wanted to – would be a more candid way to phrase it.</p><p>“Prosecutor Kr…” Mizaistom started and got cut off :</p><p>“Save your breath, lieutenant. Let me cut to the chase. You requested a dangerous convict freed to aid in flushing out another psychopath. Not only the mass murderer's identity remains unknown, but he claimed another victim today. Your brilliant plan didn't pan out. I demand that Illumi Z. is returned to prison.”</p><p>“Bisky,” Mizaistom said in an appeasing tone. “Wind down. I get how you feel about this. But you can hardly call it a flop yet. On the contrary. Regardless of your grim forecasts, Illumi hasn't defected. As promised, he's doing his part. More than that, he proved useful already, by helping us stop the arsonist…”</p><p>“You didn't drag his ass out of the cell for the arsonist!” she boomed. The windows shook in their frames. Bisky looked down at her interlocutor. “I couldn't care less whether it was Pariston who approved of this madness or Netero himself. One less Zoldyck out there equals hundreds of people staying alive.”</p><p>Or murdered in a messy way, I thought. Didn't voice it, though.</p><p>“The investigation is moving,” Mizaistom continued, meek and mild as a lamb. “We have a strong suspect. No need for another team to start from square one. Give it a few more weeks. We've got this.”</p><p>The two exchanged glances.</p><p>“I hope you realize that you're crossing the line here,” Bisky said. “You're relying on mental cases to get things right in Yorkshin. What kind of example you set?” When Mizaistom didn't answer, she continued: “Three weeks. If by that time the Headsman is not captured, I will move the earth and the heavens to get you degraded. And Silva will kiss the hope of bailing his murderous son out goodbye. Is that clear?”</p><p>“As clear as day,” Mizaistom replied.</p><p>Then the prosecutor's rosy eyes turned on me. “Mugshots don't do you justice, do they.” Bisky leaned in, squeezed my cheek, and pulled it, like a mum would. Moments later her brows knitted, and her face became lurid again. The prosecutor's finger jabbed my chest, when she hissed through her teeth: “You've killed my favourite Chippendale!”</p><p>I predicted as much. Kept my mouth shut, and assumed my best impassive stare. Could hardly remember the target. Entertained my thoughts, trying to recall the job. Oh, yeah. The stripper who cheated on my client. The jealous lover's response wasn't all that bad. He wanted the mark to die painlessly. I had to recite a poorly written farewell poem, and then – one needle to the heart did it. Easy job. Clean and fast.</p><p>The prosecutor grimaced at my unreadable face. She stormed out of the office, shoving unsuspecting Kite out of her way. The technician bounced off the wall. He didn't know what hit him, and how he earned it.</p><p>“Well, that went smooth,” Kurapika said.</p><p>Mizaistom glared at him with reproach. The detective came out of the encounter unscratched. As if he weren't there at all.</p><p>Kite peaked inside the lieutenant's office, some vials and papers pressed to his chest. He spoke:</p><p>“You guys heard the news? The Phantom Troupe is organizing some big jump today.”</p><p>“Where does this intel come from?” Kurapika asked.</p><p>“The word is spreading like wildfire. It could be a gossip, though.”</p><p>We moved onto the corridor. One moment later, officers crowded Mizaistom, reporting the same thing. Someone double-crossed the Spiders, and tipped the cops about the Troupe's next operation. The police promised the informant protection in exchange for detailed insight into thieves' plans. A few cops went to escort the guy, but all they found instead was his cold corpse.</p><p>“The squealer must have died shortly after he made the call to the authorities,” Knuckle said. “He bled out of many shallow paper cut wounds. Would you believe that?”</p><p>Didn't like the sound of it. My youngest sibling accepted a job from the Spiders. Smart and talented kid, but too young to see through Chrollo's schemes. I should be there to supervise him, yet I was stuck with the Headsman's case. My only hope was, father approved of the job first, and Kalluto didn't act on his own. He was capable of such recklessness, and it was bugging me.</p><p>Be it as it may, the police received but a hint that some serious shit was about to go down that day. Phones in Mizaistom's office started ringing. The atmosphere changed from dull to tingly. My two guardian angels were redirected from keeping watch over me, to snooping around in search for clues. For that reason, they ordered me not to leave Kurapika's side. As for the Spiders' goal – my money was on another robbery. Of course. When people thought 'the Troupe', they were usually thinking 'blood-bath' more than thievery. Chrollo's bigger operations were more a spectacle of carnage. That was another factor that made the police officers so worked up.</p><p>We loitered in the forensics lab. People paced back and forth, hoping to get the latest updates on the Troupe hunt. The enthusiasm even lured Leorio out of his office. Only it wasn't that. It was Kurapika's relation to Chrollo's pack.</p><p>“Don't you guys have your own investigation to take care of?” he nagged.</p><p>“Autopsies outcomes will take time to arrive,” I heard Kurapika say. He sounded different. Stone-cold. “The Spiders hide well. I won't miss an opportunity to learn how some of them look like.”</p><p>“A personal vendetta?” I asked.</p><p>“Maybe,” Kurapika replied as if his body was with us, but his mind was elsewhere.</p><p>Leorio spun around, and glared at me from above his small shades. The good doctor's mouth said 'Stop', and his hand made a cutting motion.</p><p>'The chain?' I asked soundlessly, and spanked the air with an invisible whip. Truth be told, I wasn't curious. Only intended to give Leorio an exercise in non-verbal communication. Leorio nodded, face stern. I raised my hands, palms opened. No more pressing on the subject. Not my business anyway.</p><p>I excused myself, and went down to the morgue to check what Machi found inside the latest Headsman's prey.</p><p>The dead woman's rib cage laid opened like some monstrous carnivorous plant. Machi was working alone, surrounded with different shape vessels. Most of them held organs she pulled out of the victim. The liver, the heart, the lungs, the uterus, the scrotum… Blood everywhere. Machi kept her workplace as clean as possible. She swiped the table with cloth soaked in disinfectant every now and again. On another table I noticed four trays. Two of them with broken glass, one – cracked mirror bits, and on the last one laid three scalpels.</p><p>“That's the non-standard content of her insides,” Machi said, when she noticed me checking the trays. “I'll leave it to Kite to piece it together.”</p><p>“At least two glasses, a mirror, and scalpels.” I tilted my head. It made no sense.</p><p>“Don't lose sleep over it. He stuffed your double with whatever brings suffering to mind.”</p><p>On the nearby desk stood a radio tuned to Yorkshin Waves station. It played popular music intertwined with occasional news. I listened to the quick, joyful track, watching Machi put stitches on the body. Tried to wrap my brain around the change in the killer's MO, the items he left for us to find, and what it meant. Could it be, that those crushed bits were only there to scare and repel? I was prone to neither. Could read emotions, but, speaking straight from the shoulder, I was never very good with them. Perhaps that is why I was looking for logic where there was only paranoia. People in panic don't think in a rational manner. The same was true for the prince. Money can't buy you guts. Not those in the metaphorical sense.</p><p>“The guys got tipped off about the Troupe's plans.” Decided to test how far Machi would let me in on her buddies' dealings. “Aren't you worried you'll get busted this time around?”</p><p>She laughed the concept off. “That's not the first time someone rated us out to the cops. The heist will go fine.”</p><p>So, it was a robbery all right.</p><p>“What is it this time? An auction house? A jewellery store? A bank?”</p><p>“Something Chrollo always wanted to do.” Machi tied up the last stitch on the chest. Next, she moved the needle to the pelvis region. “The Trust.” And she gave me a sly smile.</p><p>Damn it. The Yorkshin Vault of Trust was the oldest, and the most secured treasury in the city. It was also where my family stored a no small amount of our fortune. The Zoldyck vault sat in the sealed off area designed for the most demanding clientèle. The whole zone was impossible to break into. But Chrollo was a master thief, and as such, he had a quest for a challenge. Chances were, he didn't want to bother with the highest security locks. The whole thing didn't sit well with me, regardless.</p><p>“I assume, you go after general deposits.”</p><p>Machi smiled again, and said: “It depends on Kortopi and Shalnark. They had some brilliant ideas, or so I've heard.”</p><p>Milluki added extra security to our safe. The mechanism that opened the door after scanning the authorized family member's eye. Then there was a couple of complex locks after that. It should have calmed me down, but it didn't. It would be wise to side with Kurapika on this one, and keep my eyes peeled for further developments. Cooperation with the Troupe was all good and sweet. But if I saw any of them reach for our hard-earned money, I wouldn't hesitate to cut that Spider leg off.</p><p>The door to the dissection room flew open, and the ugly sagging sweater stepped inside. Some piece of paper flapped in Hisoka's hand. He saw my neutral expression and beamed.</p><p>“Detective! To what do we owe the pleasure?”</p><p>I leaned against the wall, crossed my arms, and reverted my attention back to the trays. “To the latest Headsman's kill,” I informed.</p><p>“Such a shame, isn't it?” Hisoka approached me, and regarded the beheaded cadaver with a mockery of a sadness. “How do they find them? If only I got to her first, she'd be in a much better state.”</p><p>Much doubtful. She'd end up broken, only differently. There are so many ways to deface an individual.</p><p>On the Yorkshin Waves, a male presenter interrupted the ongoing programme to communicate:</p><p>“Breaking news! Neon Nostrade, a known real estate holder's daughter, has been reported missing. The worried father offers a financial reward for anyone who knows her current whereabouts.” The announcer then proceeded with giving Neon's detailed description.</p><p>I looked at Hisoka, and he looked back at me. Despite surrounding noises, a hollow silence lingered between us. A mutual recognition. Connection through something heavy yet invisible. Like an ugly secret that could breed a thousand possibilities – if only it was let to. Neither of us seemed willing to act upon our shared knowledge, though. Having understood that, Morow waved his sheet of paper.</p><p>“Personnel department agreed on my leave, boss.” He placed it on the remains' fresh stitches. The document soaked with blood, pus and disinfectant in mere seconds. “I'm taking a month off to pay number four a visit.”</p><p>“Packing your things up?” Machi asked.</p><p>“Got some minor things to settle first. One loose end to tie up. A small matter in the Fight Club. One little bird to catch. And then I'm free to go.”</p><p>“You won't be missed.” Machi yawned. Still bent over my dead carbon-copy, she was sewing the gaping opening in her underbelly.</p><p>“I beg to differ.” Morow smiled at me. Fake and sweet. Yet, this time – dangerous. “I'm sure Mr. Yellmi will do everything in his power to see me <em>very</em> soon.”</p><p>“Not if I can help it,” I replied unamused.</p><p>“Oh, but you <em>will</em> run into my arms so fast you might hurt yourself,” he said.</p><p>Something in his tone I didn't like. Hisoka spoke in riddles. It was getting on my nerves. I placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, and glared at him warningly. “That a threat?”</p><p>“I'd never!” Morrow made a shocked face. “Does it look like I'm suicidal?” Then his features relaxed into his usual tease. “Consider it a prophecy. My third eye sees extraordinarily clear today. I wonder why.” He smirked, and leaned in to say in a much lower and quieter voice: “Here's another glimpse into the future for you. The next time we meet, when I tell you to jump, you'll be asking how high.” And he licked his lips, much like he did during his fight against Big Booba. Only that one was more sensual, and much slower. I hated everything about it.</p><p>For the first time since the last night, I sensed a prickle of anxiety in my temple. My fingers stroked a needle pierced through the scratchy coat's fabric. My better judgement wanted Hisoka dead right then. Instincts told me that would be for the best. However, my rational brain warned against it. That is, if I ever wanted to see my family residency on Kukuroo Mountain again. Hunch versus logic. The battle almost as old as light versus dark. How does one of them win when they both could be right? The one that promises fewer complications at a future date.</p><p>“Get lost,” I said. My discontent never showed.</p><p>“Catch me later?” He winked, put his coat on, grabbed his hat, waved to Machi, and glided out of the room.</p><p>Machi shook her head, and cut the surgical suture. “Don't know why danchou is allowing him even a try.”</p><p>Neither did I.</p><p>“Take those to Kite on your way out, will you?” She motioned at the trays.</p><p>I took the retrieved evidence, and moved up to the lab. Spent there most of the day, keeping my ear to the ground. Killed time helping Kite piece the mirror together. The technician hoped to learn the manufacturer. So, I got myself occupied with the peculiar jigsaw puzzle. Leorio joined me occasionally, making more mess than helping. But it was a pretence to stare at the blond. The good doctor worried his friend's back would soon start bleeding again. And he wasn't the only one to stalk Kurta like a shadow. The Crazy Sloths that day seemed to avoid my gaze. Each time I turned my head in the direction they seemed watching, I met Kurta's hunched, pensive person. Sloths anticipated something monumental. By the end of the day, they would be proven correct.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Late afternoon came. With it, the entire Yorkshin police swarmed the surroundings of Vault of Trust. The Phantom Troupe's target wasn't revealed, until the robbery began. Every officer in the city was looking for them since morning. And thus, it didn't take long for the police to surround the area, evacuate it, and seal it off. Mizaistom quarrelled with another high-ranking officials how to approach the situation. The lieutenant's greatest worry was to cut the casualties. He feared Chrollo's men took hostages. I wagered, everybody who didn't escape the bank the moment the Spiders entered it, was already dead. But no one asked my opinion, so I didn't share. In the end, the police received directives to open fire at everyone who tried to exit the building not having their hands up. Such communicate was delivered to thieves through megaphones. Then, it was waiting for their move.</p><p>Not to my surprise, it ended up classy. A few Spiders showed their masked persons, shooting bullets left and right. They shielded themselves – and the loot – behind the bodies of long departed bank clerks. Not every copper could tell that, though. The moment they saw 'the hostages', they ceased fire, they hesitated. This made an opening for Chrollo's thieves. They stormed out of the treasury, chased by bullets, and replying in kind. Flash grenades flew into the living wall. Turned out some of them were simply – grenades, and bodies started dropping. Flares blinded the eyes, and pepper spray filled the air. I noticed that a few shots bounced off the thieves, sending sparks into the air. The Spiders wore some unique type of body armour. The idea? Probably stolen. Much like everything else, as far as Chrollo was concerned. At times, it felt like the master thief considered creating something from scratch as an offence to his die-hard criminal heart. With him, it was either steal or destroy. The only thing Chrollo was capable of forging appeared to be slaughter and chaos.</p><p>All of a sudden, the officers involved in the chase were halted, and called back to the treasury's vicinity. The noose around the Vault of Trust wasn't loosening.</p><p>“We have three of them trapped,” Shoot said, reporting to Mizaistom.</p><p>“How did it happen?” The lieutenant sounded calm, but the glistering in his black eyes gave him away.</p><p>“We and Knuckle sniffed around, until we reached the top security area. It should be sealed off, but it wasn't. Three Spiders inside tried to crack the lock on some safe deposit box. Gunfight broke out. Dunno what was it that Knuckle activated, but it triggered more security. The whole zone is now cut off.”</p><p>“Where is Knuckle?” Mizaistom asked.</p><p>“In the ambulance,” Shoot said. “He caught one in the leg. Judging by how he cursed, when they were pulling the bullet out, I'd say, he's more than okay.”</p><p>“Get me someone who knows how this security works!” Mizaistom exclaimed to no one in particular. “We need to weigh our options, before we move on.”</p><p>“Cutting through that wall will take hours,” someone I didn't know said. “I've read about it. They're walled off behind a one-meter thick, steel covered block of concrete.”</p><p>“How many guns do they have?” Mizaistom asked.</p><p>“Many,” my guardian angel of sorrow replied. “They didn't seem to be running out of ammo either.”</p><p>“Perhaps cutting through isn't the best way to approach it then.”</p><p>“We could bore a hole, and let sleeping gas in,” Kurapika suggested. “Or stop the ventilation, and let them suffocate.”</p><p>I raised my eyebrows hearing that. Detective! Shouldn't you be the good guys?</p><p>“I know you hate them, but take it easy, Kurapika,” Mizai said. “They are trapped. No way for them to escape. They are as good as ours now. The hole in the wall and sleeping gas will do.” Then he raised his voice over the general cacophony: “All right people, gather here. Here's how we'll go about this.”</p><p>The lieutenant began detailing how he wished to proceed with the bandits. Meanwhile, I weighed <em>my</em> options. Didn't like the thought of three Spiders anywhere near my family's money. Little did Mizaistom know, the robbers' predicament wasn't as grim as he imagined it. I knew of a way of getting them out of there. The question was, whether I wanted to do it? Yes – I wished them out of there, so that they wouldn't be taking their sweet time trying to force our lock. Yes – I would earn a favour with Chrollo. Then the chances of him helping me with Tserriednich sky-rocketed. Yes – needed to make sure they assembled nothing about our security measures, and whatever they <em>did</em> assemble, would be returned to me. The only 'no' resided in the fact, that I'd have to use a secret passage. My family created it to be able to get to our treasury through back doors. But this could be remediated later on. Wrong – it <em>must</em> be remediated. Still, digging a new underground passage was no big deal – it only demanded funds and time. So, it was three firm 'yes' against one weak 'no'. I started to explore my surroundings for a car. If I wanted to do it, that was the best time to get it going, when everybody else was preoccupied planning. Boring the hole through the block of concrete and steel would take them some time as well. It should be enough for me to vanish and appear, without Mizaistom or Kurapika ever noticing.</p><p>“Chrollo won't leave them like this,” I heard Machi's voice behind me.</p><p>The girl changed her clothes. Her skin was flushed a bit. She wore her hair messy, so one could overlook the pink ponytail being more disarrayed than usual. Yet, I could still smell sweat on her. And TNT. Other than that, one would never suspect Machi was among the Spiders who robbed the Vault of Trust.</p><p>“He and the others went to 'Sphinx' for more fire-power. They'll appear shortly, guns blazing. You'd like to clear off before it happens. When they're here, bodies will drop like leaves in autumn.”</p><p>“If you can find me a car, I can get them out of there,” I offered. “Your boss will save on munition.”</p><p>“And will owe you one, huh.” She looked me up and down, trying to act tough. Yet, my words comforted her. She was pretty riled up inside. Couldn't blame her. The job they pulled off was hardly a well done one. “I'll organize you a car, and ask danchou to hole up for a little longer. How long will it take you?”</p><p>“I must be back before cops lift that barrier. I can promise you that, once it happens, they'll find nothing but an empty space on the other side. On one condition. I'm going alone. <em>Nobody</em> follows me.”</p><p>“Fine,” she said. “Let's get you that vehicle.”</p><p>We moved away from the officers, and steered clear of the brave bystanders. Machi chose to break into a big convertible. A really huge one.</p><p>“You see Franklin, and you'll understand,” she explained. “Hey.”</p><p>I looked up at her. Never before had I seen Machi's eyes so soft.</p><p>“Thanks,” she said.</p><p>“Don't bother. I have my stake in this.” I took the keys, got behind the wheel, and fired off the engine. “If Kurapika starts looking for me, stall him.” Didn't think it would be necessary. The detective appeared more absorbed by the Troupe than me. Thank goodness for unsettled scores.</p><p>“I've got you covered.”</p><p>With all the cops involved in the ambush, the chances of me getting a speeding ticket were null. I stepped on it. Drove straight to the small warehouse, about fifteen minutes' walk from the treasury. At first glance, it was an old, crumbling construction. It gave off a vibe of uninviting abandonment. Its only purpose was to hide the elevator leading underground. There was always one Zoldyck butler inside – in case someone felt like being adventurous. I found her playing chess with herself. She noticed me, stood up, and bowed.</p><p>“Master Illumi,” she said.</p><p>“Inform my father that this passage has been compromised.” I punched in the activation code for the elevator. “Shortly, a couple of guys will exit here. If you don't see me among them, kill them all.”</p><p>“Understood.” She reached for the telephone receiver, and opened a cabinet filled with firearms.</p><p>Stepped into the elevator, doors slammed shut in front of me, and down we went. The elevator led to the railway with carts. Well, they weren't standard carts, not like the ones used in mines. They were quite comfortable, covered, and padded with sound muffling material. You could still hear the wagon dash on the rails, it rattled, and shook a bit, but, all in all, it offered quite a pleasant ride. It never took long either. Five minutes at best. I hopped into the wagon and started it. Soon, I faced the hidden entrance to the Zoldyck vault. Neared my eye to the reader. The scanner recognized me, then demanded a code. I provided it, and another one. Finally, the safe opened. It wasn't exactly splendid that it led right inside our storage. Then again, it was never meant to serve as an extraction route. I marched through the narrow hall filled with many deposit boxes. Each one heavy with my family's fortune. It was not only money, jewels, and precious metals. It was valuable blackmail material and blueprints. Many things I bet Chrollo would love to usurp.</p><p>I pulled out my pin-gun. Loaded the needles enhanced with the strongest and fastest paralysing toxin I had on me. Only then I opened the lock. It was complicated and massive, and loud. The door let go. The moment I set a foot on the other side, I could hear the drill working its way through the hardened barrier.</p><p>The hall resembled a battlefield. Blood stains, shattered marble, cement powder, bullet shells, bullet holes, and cracks everywhere. The wall opposite the blocked entrance – mercilessly punctured. Horizontal, deep, burnt-in zigzags – a reminiscence of enormous fire-power release, like Shoot saying 'I was here.' In the centre of the room sat three trapped Spiders. One of them I knew – the forger Kortopi. He was tiny, short, and mute. He sported medium-length platinum blonde hair. Long bangs made only one of his eyes visible. Kortopi was also the guy I pinned my hopes on to see Tserriednich jailed for life. Well, now I was happy with my choice. Couldn't let them arrest <em>him</em>, could I?</p><p>The other two I was unfamiliar with. One was huge, like Machi said. Franklin had a scarred face. The scars were stitched with thick surgical sutures for greater visibility. To add to the oddness, he had elongated earlobes. Franklin was hugging two huge, six-barrel rotary machine guns as if they were toys. The last Spider was slim and tall, black long hair tied in a topknot. A sad line of moustache on his sad face. Apart from a few automatics, he carried a sword. Out of place and out of time. There for sentimental reasons – I assumed.</p><p>“Who the hell are you?” the slim Spider asked.</p><p>“Illumi Zoldyck. The moment they drill through” – I motioned at the wall – “they'll gas you.”</p><p>The Spiders looked simultaneously at the reinforced wall. The borer never stopped working. Then they moved my way.</p><p>“Before we carry on, did you try anything funny with security locks of the vault 666?” I knocked at the monster of the door, now opened ajar.</p><p>“No,” Franklin replied. I didn't believe him. What a lousy liar.</p><p>“Must I check this out first? Needless to say, if you try to outsmart me, you'll be stuck here. Won't get far without my help.”</p><p>The sword-man sighed. “Fine, we tampered with it. It was Shalnark's stupid idea anyway. He pressed we tried these locks. Not the Zoldycks' in particular, but the highest security ones' in general. Don't sweat it. He didn't even know how to bite it.”</p><p>Kortopi nodded eagerly from behind his colleague's legs. He was really short.</p><p>I made a mental note to remind father to replace the locks nevertheless.</p><p>“It's Nobunaga, by the way.” The black-haired man outstretched his hand, and I shook it.</p><p>I squinted my eyes. “Nobunaga? Nobunaga Hazama, the Yorkshin Waves radio host?”</p><p>“The same.” The man grinned. “I also own over half of its stock. Guess it makes me the radio <em>owner</em> as well.”</p><p>Chrollo sure as hell had his people in all the right places.</p><p>“Okay gentlemen, put some blindfolds on. I'll lead the way.”</p><p>When I made sure they covered their eyes – mostly used their shirts – I took little Kortopi in my arms, and led the guys out. Closed each lock, checking now and then if none of the Spiders was peeping. The boys seemed reasonable enough not to try anything stupid. Riding the elevator up posed a challenge. Franklin took quite a lot of space, and I had to position myself in front. The doors slid open. Two machine guns were aimed at my chest. The butler relaxed, and lowered the guns.</p><p>“Also, tell father to arrange new safety mechanisms.” I pushed the Spiders forwards and out of the warehouse. Packed them into the car. We drove three circles before I stopped some five minutes' walk from the Vault of Trust.</p><p>"You can take the blindfolds off. Keep the car.” I tossed the keys to Nobunaga. “It's stolen. Send Chrollo my regards.”</p><p>I got out of the vehicle, hands casually in coats pockets. Pushed my way through the growing crowd of onlookers.</p><p>The whole operation took less than I imagined it would. We waited some ten minutes. Finally, the specialist bore a hole wide enough to fit a tube connected with a sleeping gas tank. Another twenty minutes passed before they filled the room with it. Only then they lifted the armoured barrier. To Mizaistom's great disappointment, there was not a single Spider inside. We all stood flabbergasted. The only evidence that there was someone there were ammo boxes, blood, and abandoned guns. No trace of the Troupe's members. True to their name, they vanished. Like Phantoms.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>There are many ways to voice one's anger. Some shout their lungs out or break furniture. Some descend deep into themselves. They radiate quiet that only appears tranquil – but is rage instead. The latter was detective Kurapika's way. He insisted that we return to headquarters on foot. The night was warm and dry. A rare occurrence in Yorkshin. I walked next to him, appreciating the silence. Moths gathered around lampposts and bounced off them. The flickering of their wings cast dancing shadows on pavements. In a distance, people bickered, engines buzzed, the night-life went on. Where we strolled, it was still and placid. Not for long.</p><p>The road was broad and empty, courtesy of being padded with polished rocks instead of asphalt. Cobbled roads offered a bumpy ride, so few used it, unless they were in a hurry and needed a short-cut. Like the car behind us. A large, black van, its windows tinted. The driver was speeding, zoomed past us, then hit the brakes. The engine whimpered, tires squawked as the vehicle stopped some eight meters ahead of us. The back doors opened. A skinny goon appeared and yelled:</p><p>“Oi, Blondie!”</p><p>Kurapika's head snapped up. My finger twitched, fighting the urge to grab for the pin-gun.</p><p>“Catch this!” The thug pushed something out of the car. Correction – not something, but someone.</p><p>The moment Pairo stumbled out of the van, the back doors slammed shut, and the driver flushed the gas pedal to the floor. None of it mattered. Not for Kurapika, it didn't. I could only imagine what was happening in his head. He resisted accepting the inevitable. The mind can only do it by tricking your senses into believing your time has frozen. It often does, a few heart beats before our personal world shatters.</p><p>The kid's face was pallid, his nose wet. Pairo's hands moved in front of him, searching for support, for anything familiar. The blind eyes opened wide, unable to perceive what was happening, nor seeing what was it that he wore. Pairo had about two minutes of life left. The kid was dressed in explosives. A wide belt of dynamite sticks hugged his tiny waist. A big timer planted in front of it showed a little less than two minutes until detonation. No one could help him. No time to play heroes, but plenty of it to save ourselves.</p><p>Kurta stood petrified, his reddened eyes watered without him realizing it. Big tears rolled down his cheek, as if his body knew better than his mind, and began its goodbye. Kurapika extended his arm, mouth whispering the name of the one who'd soon depart forever.</p><p>Where Kurapika's consciousness fought to stop the clock, my timer ticked double the speed. We were in the open. No trees or buildings to hide behind. I looked down and spotted a manhole. It was close enough. The thick, iron cover shouldn't be hard to lift. They never secured sewer entrances in Yorkshin.</p><p>“We have to run!” I grabbed Kurapika by the arm.</p><p>The detective wouldn't budge. I was not having this. As if things weren't bad enough, I caught a remote sound of tires screeching, when the black van took a sharp turn. The roaring of the engine was approaching again. The prince's goons weren't done with us yet.</p><p>It all happened in a flash. I tossed Kurapika over my shoulder, paying his cries and curses no mind. His body was limp anyway, his punches weak. I sped to the manhole, and lifted the cover. I don't look it, but I am quite strong. The car was getting closer, and it was as sure as death and taxes, it would drive past us before detonation. Took Kurapika's gun, before I dropped the man into the hole. Heard a throaty 'No, nooo!!', and a wet splash when Kurta landed in a puddle below. The van's tinted window went down, and a muzzle of an automatic appeared. I had only time to grab the cover, and crouch behind it, before they opened fire. It hit my shield hard. Bullets ricocheted off the iron surface with a whizz. The strength of it pushed me to the back. Aimed the detective's pistol at an awkward angle, from under the bottom edge of the cover, and shoot two shots. Whether I hit or missed; the driver got surprised. The van rocked side to side as it drove away.</p><p>And at last – the human time-bomb exploded. The blast swiped me off my feet, and sent me flying towards the gaping hole in the road. I dropped inside like a rag-doll, bumping my head on the edge. Kurapika's hoarse screams filled the dark tunnel. As if he intended to drown out the sounds of his cousin's body parts landing with a plop all over the place. My ears were still ringing from the bang, a dull pain throbbing on the side of my head. Yet, it seemed the van forwent further stalking. Tserriednich delivered his message. By conducting his business like that, he also opened a can of worms.</p><p>Kurapika dropped to his knees, shaking. I helped him up, and fished out a flashlight. If the rooftops are assassins' highway, then the sewers are their low-way. It's still a way, and I knew the Yorkshin's slimy veins by heart. I marched us forward, heading to the Yorkshin police main station. Kurapika walked behind me, like an automaton, torpid, pale, and silent. It was better that way. He had a lot to process. Kurta never opened his mouth. Not when we crawled back to the surface. Not when we entered the station. Not even when I steered him straight to Leorio's office instead of the building we were checked in.</p><p>The medic was getting ready to leave. He had his coat on, and was jamming a light-bronze scarf behind his collar, when I pushed Kurapika inside, and sat him onto the examination couch.</p><p>“He's in shock,” I said, and referred what had transpired.</p><p>With my each word Leorio's eyes grew bigger and bigger. He tossed his coat back on the hanger, shone some light into Kurapika's reddened, empty eyes, then gave him a shot. Before long, the blond was laying down on the couch, comatose.</p><p>"He can't be alone for the next 24 hours,” Leorio said. “I'll stay with him. What about you?”</p><p>“I'm fine.” I reached behind my belt, and pulled Kurapika's handgun.</p><p>It was a standard police semi-automatic pistol. I secured the sidearm, removed the magazine, and placed it all on Leorio's desk. The moment it rested there with a thud; the man jumped up in his armchair.</p><p>“Do you know how to handle a gun, Leorio?” I asked. The dismayed expression on Leorio's face was all the answer I needed. I collected all the parts back. “Then I'll hold onto it for him until he gets better.”</p><p>Leorio relaxed. His mouth moved his unlit cig up and down as he regarded the detective. “Tomorrow's a day off,” he said. “Won't let him work, until he gets his head straight. I'll down a cold one. Then I'll slug another one. Then I'll call Mizai. You go get some rest.”</p><p>I turned to walk away.</p><p>“But…” he started.</p><p>I looked at him over my shoulder. He pointed at my coat.</p><p>“You have some washing to do.”</p><p>I gave myself the once-over. The side of my coat was spotted with blood. Not much of it, taking into consideration what had happened, yet still. I nodded my head, and went to my apartment.</p><p> </p><p>Back at my place, I treated the bloodstains on the trench with a mixture of water, soap and laundry detergent, and left it soaked overnight. The creased quilt on the bed reminded me that I pulled an all-nighter. I slipped under it and slept like a rock. That is until I had a dream. I rarely remember them, and they hardly ever wake me up, but this time was different. A re-play of the last night's events, only distorted. The van's back doors open without a sound, and a boy stumbles out of it. Only it isn't a boy, but a full-grown man, tall and muscular. His eyes – blue and cold as ice, pupils more like a snake's slits. His hair – white, long, and wavy. The man is much aware of his condition. Yet, he only stares back at me. Everything around us is still, dead silent. The realm of nightly visions never makes sense. And so, I notice a cord escaping from dynamite sticks on the guy. I track the wire all the way to my hand. I am holding a detonator. The red button on top radiates heat. Part of me urges to press it. My dreamy self wants nothing else, but to watch the one in front of me disappear in a bloody mist, torn apart. And then, a bang sounds.</p><p>My eyes snapped open. The noises were coming from the street. The clock said quarter past six in the morning. Got myself up, feeling a hard erection between my legs. I looked out the window. Some heavy machinery parked nearby. Construction workers getting ready for some communal reparations. No use going back to bed. The memory of a few seconds before the commotion disturbed my rest already fled. No point dwelling on it. Refreshed myself, clothed, and went down to the canteen in the main building. The drowsy worker greeted me with a tired smile.</p><p>“Hard time snoozing?” she asked.</p><p>I confirmed, ordered the strongest coffee they had, and dragged my feet to the nearest table. There were some yesterday's papers scattered around. Flipped through them to pass the time. Counted three adverts with Neon's photo. The worried father asked for any information about her whereabouts. A high reward for any useful tip. Not high enough.</p><p>As it was getting brighter, more people appeared in the canteen. One of them was Kite. We exchanged greetings. He said: “Here's to hope he'll get through it,” we clinked our coffee mugs, and sat for a good 20 minutes reading papers. Then Leorio joined in. They both talked some, cursed the reality, and help themselves to the best of their ability to be strong for their colleague. The place got crowded and noisy. It was high time to move to my cubicle. I expected Chrollo to reach out any moment now. Better to be there for Machi to find me.</p><p>Another white envelope awaited me, plastered with a chewed up bubble gum to my door's front. I took it and flipped it over. No sign of my family's burgundy seal. A barely perceptible scent of sweet perfume. I entered my space to the sounds of a pneumatic hammer. The workers repaired some damage to the tenement house across the street. I closed the balcony, and the noise intensity got cut off by a half. Opened the envelope. Inside was a photograph of Kill. His eyes closed serenely; head tilted to the side. He was gagged and tied. On his chest rested a note written on the ace of hearts: <em>Come to play, brother dearest. Collection point: the disgraced NGL station. </em></p><p>“No,” I breathed out, disbelieving, panic-struck. My hair stood on end. I wanted to choke the life out of him, wanted to tear him limb from limb. My brother better be not bruised. He better be intact lest I kill you ten thousand times over, Hisoka.</p><p>Outside, a big truck passed by. Made every furniture shake, but it could as well be my rage. The floor, the walls, the appliances, the glass – every god-damn thing in my midst clapper and rattled. All the small items clattered at the frenzy and dread that poured out of me.</p><p>“Morow,” – my changed voice rumbled inside the empty room. It sounded alien even to my ears – “You are a dead man walking.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Mind over matter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ever wondered how hell looked like? That is, before it became equated with a nightmarish landscape. I sometimes do. And near every time NGL comes to mind. The district wasn't always the crumbling ruins, brimming with filth – both human and regular garbage. About 70 years ago NGL was a part of Yorkshin no one shied away from. Maybe life was a bit tougher there, its folks more thick-skinned. The police – more corrupted, more trigger-happy than their counterparts from other districts. Still, existence was manageable there.</p><p>The NGL cops from 70 years ago earned the ominous reputation. They didn't play by the book more often than they did, yet still got away with it. The highest scores in traceability rate helped. They topped in rankings for arrests conducted and criminal cases solved. I can almost hear what their supervisors told themselves. 'The worst mad-house in Yorkshin requires the firmest noose. And it's a wild, wild horse, NGL, let me tell you, son.' Until the day came, when NGL police achievements became very questionable indeed. One bleeding-heart officer tipped the higher authorities. Their station hid a dirty secret. Much like every proud citizen of Yorkshin. In that regard NGL was more Yorkshin than anything else. That secret being an illegal, unrecorded questioning room. There, the less subtle law enforcers brutalized the most dangerous element into confession. It helped solve some cases, sure. But someone raised a question pregnant with consequences. How do they tell which inmates were guilty as charged, and which ones were intimidated into taking the blame? It's easier to beat the crap out of a man than to do the hard work. Keep them hanging upside down for as long as it takes for them to accept their fate.<br/><br/>The then Police Chief closed the station, and launched a procedure to sort the mess out. Separating the wheat from the chaff began. A long chain of lawsuits commenced. Thousands of closed cases had to be re-visited. Before they were ready to re-organize, the district had been taken over by Mafia, gangs, hookers, and drug peddlers. Someone thought: 'Maybe it's not the worst idea.' You know – to have a purulent ulcer that attracts dregs. Let them do their shady dealings in NGL, and let's hope, they'll stay clear of the rest of Yorkshin. More often than not… Don't quote me on that. But I fail to see another reason why something as putrid as NGL has been kept alive.<br/><br/>This is how NGL crumbled to its current deplorable state. No sane person set a foot there since. Not, unless they had to. And the reasons for it were often times slippery. What happens when you remove the protectors of the civilized society out of the picture, even for a while? All the rats come out of the sewers to dine on the most vulnerable. They are always there – the rats. Always there, even though regular people rarely suspect their existence. Many lead cosy lives, entrapped in a mind-numbing daily routine. They think the rat is a stumbling, harmless beggar stinking of cheap vodka. Or a homeless lady picking out cans from dumpsters. Small fish in comparison to real rats armed to teeth with weapons from black market. Organized in squads, and cunning so much so, they pose a threat to cats that ought to feast on them. When the cats are gone, rodents party. Everything goes back to primal age, where only wits or might make right. And even then, it is the might most of the time. Yorkshin has a reminder of it – and it is NGL.<br/><br/>Nobody ever tidied up in the district. The disgraced station was most definitely still standing, the past haunting its borders like a warning nobody cared to take to heart. A perfect place for a criminal to lie low. Or for a kidnapper to hide a hostage. I never saw it up close. Read and heard stories about it. Passed it by on a couple of occasions. Now would be the opportunity to make up for this. Too bad I was in no mood for sightseeing.</p><p> </p><p>Mind over matter – I chanted internally every time my muscles tensed, and fists called to smash random objects to smithereens. Mind over matter, or else I would help no one, all furious and itching to cause mayhem. Whatever calm I built up, it always proved short-lived. Hisoka was a lunatic. Nut-jobs knew no fear. Too easily could I picture him snapping my brother's neck… And my fingers clenched again, and my legs wanted to stomp holes in the floor… Mind over matter. Control is all.</p><p>I dug out my old attire, the one I received on the departure day from prison. It was the only clothing I owned with any protective plating sewn in it. The belt, although damaged, could carry needles, and a lot of them. I plucked some out of my hat, and stuck them around my waist. Many projectiles, but would it suffice? Had to find one of my hidden caches. Kurapika's handgun was still in my possession. I took it with, planning to buy 10 magazines for it. I intended to empty them all, firing at Hisoka's face. Next, I installed claws on my hands, and checked Milluki's box. Galore of useful items inside. And no time to play with it. Had to skip on explosives. It made me realize, I made ready as if I were setting out to a war zone. Maybe I was. No preparations seemed too blown out of proportions. Kill's very existence was at stake. My brother knew it, my family knew it, and Morow learned it – there was not a thing in the world that I wouldn't do for Killua.  </p><p>Bought magazines for standard police sidearm. Found my needles cache, caught a taxi, and entered NGL – on foot. No cab driver would take you for a ride around the accursed district, even if you'd pay them plenty. They risked not getting out of there alive. Not to mention, the odds of having their car damaged or stolen were virtually guaranteed. Racing through uneven streets, I passed by sickly and plagued silhouettes. The locals had a slew of worries on their head, living through another day being the most common one. They showed no interest to a stranger bolting ahead as if he robbed the devil himself. NGL folks saw quite a number of atrocious episodes in their miserable life-time. They were hard to impress. The unspoken word to the wise had it that if a new face entered these parts, it must have been someone hard to bend. People assumed it. Were there anything other than an aura of murderous intent enveloping me, I'd be attacked, and robbed blind, before you could count to three. Killed, too – if a millionaire received a new organ, it was a safe bet the transplant originated from NGL.</p><p>I slowed in the vicinity of the abandoned complex of grey buildings. It was almost laughable that the base faced a children playground. No kid spent time there any more. Rust ate swings and carousels. No sane individual would as much as consider approaching the sandpit. It reeked of urine and vomit. Broken glass in the sand, and who knows what else. The once joyful past gave off a strong echo from the playground. A sorrowful spirit of the happier once-upon-a-time howled and wept. Could almost hear it in the rattle of rubbish moved by wind. Places, like people, have their stories, and they talk – that is, if you spare them a moment to listen. This sandpit's history spoke of children laughing, parents conversing, dogs barking, carousels squeaking. Like it was now? You couldn't even hear birds twitting. I do appreciate silence, and because of that, I came to know its various flavours. It brings tranquillity, and helps focus more often than not. Sometimes though, it is as welcomed as a venereal disease. The silence around the forgotten playground was of the latter kind.</p><p>The hour was early, but the sky got overcast – clouds thick and leaden, toxic. Seemed like it would be another rainy late summer day in Yorkshin.</p><p>The police complex sure looked abandoned from the outside. Yet, it wore signs of being readjusted once you neared it. The chain linked gate stood open. A brand new working camera observed it. Its black box moved, its watchful eye closed in on me, the mechanism hidden inside buzzed. And then the phone rang in an adjacent booth. I stepped in, and picked up the receiver.</p><p>“Hello, Illumi.” It was Hisoka, cheery as ever.</p><p>Random pictures flashed behind my eyes. It was stronger than me, so I let them zoom in and out, taking solace in them: Hisoka drowning in a toilet. Hisoka being stabbed with a short knife in the gut time after time, after time. Hisoka vomiting his insides out in bloody bursts. Hisoka's skull cracking from impact with concrete surface. It would be music to my ears. But it was only a fantasy. The reality was much grimmer. I swallowed, hoping my voice wouldn't betray me:</p><p>“Where is Kill?”  </p><p>“Right here, with me. Safe and sound. Having a nap.”  </p><p>“It's me you have a beef with. You shouldn't have dragged my brother into this. Give Kill back. I'll fight for him. You wanted to fight me, didn't you?”  </p><p>“Oh, but I had a change of heart. I'm throwing a big party instead. Invested time an energy to see it happen. Already sent invitations! Once the party's over, you'll be in no condition to pose a challenge.”  </p><p>“Don't play games with me!” I snapped. “Unbind Kill. Come out. Fight!”  </p><p>A laugh ringed on the other end of the line. Teeth gritted, fists clenched, I felt nails bite into my skin.  </p><p>“It is you who started this game, Illumi. Remember? 'Hard to get.' I made my move, and now it's your turn.” Then his tone changed to that of a tour-guide's. “How do you find the place? It's the Troupe's testing grounds. Well,” – he clucked – “It <em>is</em> also an execution ground, I suppose. Chrollo re-arranged it. Graced it with monitoring systems, and a few surprises, so that it may serve multiple purposes. I'm now putting it to one, let's say, extraordinary use.” Morow hemmed and hawed for a while. “You strike me as a guy who doesn't appreciate the value of friendship. So, I took liberty in inviting a few friends of mine from the Fight Club. Promised them a Zoldyck on a silver platter. You have no idea how many volunteered to take you down.”  </p><p>On that, he was wrong. I had some idea.  </p><p>“Come, find me,” Morow simpered. “Me and your little angel. Enter the main building, and <em>simply</em> go to the control room. Ah!” He tittered. “But it won't be that simple, will it now? Try not to die, okay?” A long, kissing noise drilled a phantom hole through my ear and into my brain. I winced. The sound almost hurt my braincells. Then he hanged up.  </p><p>The gate closed with a rattle behind me. There was a wide space in front of the main building. Could be a parking lot, some lawns and trees a long time ago. Now metal scraps littered it, car parts, wrecks, logs, wooden shavings – all sorts of stuff. Everything seemed corroded or rotten. One had to contemplate for a while, knowing what to search for, to notice modern additions. Not that anybody should bother. NGL was a no-man's land in its own right. Yet, Chrollo felt like covering up his investments. A fiendish mind, but splendid tactician right there. Leaving nothing to chance.</p><p>The place seemed empty, even if I could hear people further in. And a lot of them, too. They didn't make themselves visible yet. Still, they didn't put any effort into keeping their presence concealed, either. Time for quick maths. Pin-gun held 7 rounds, and Kurapika's gun 14. Minus two bullets shot at Tserriednich's mobsters the day before. That made a total of 19 possible head-shots before re-loading. Each bullet had to count.</p><p>Shadows dashed behind the windows inside the police station. So, there were some men lurking there, too. I took three steps forward, when something behind me clattered. Iron covers revealed a wide screen that hung high on grates. It flicked on, and I saw myself on it. The angle was from above. My bet was, the nearby transmission towers – good spots to place cameras. Couldn't shoot them down from where I stood, even if I wanted to. No point in it either way. Better to save bullets for Morow's 'friends.'</p><p>“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hisoka's voice thundered from loudspeakers. “True to my word, I offer you a chance to match against the elite assassin from the feared Zoldyck clan. Bring him to me, and you shall be rewarded. Have fun. Don't forget about the rule!”</p><p>The first pack of brawlers entered the scene. Around 30 to 40 people. They blocked my way, emerging from behind annexes and the main building's sides. They clutched gas tubes, wrenches, baseball bats with spiky enhancements, brass knuckles. Some thought they could best me barehanded. More specialized brought nunchakus, sickles, sais, three-part-staffs or blunt spears. All melee weapons. None of them took a firearm, or so it appeared. Their sheer number against me made them confident of their win.</p><p>“Aww,” one of them drawled. He was watching my close-up on the TV. His first and last mistake. “Look at him. He's such a doh…”</p><p>A needle flew, silent like a cat, fast as a lightning, precise like me. It plunged deep into the thug's forehead. His head jolted to the back; the body soon followed. Their companion's demise made other goons excited. Don't know what else had I expected. Yorkshin bred a special type of fearless bruisers. On the other hand, they were never too smart, nor were they very skilled. The pack cheered and howled, eager to die from my hand. I flatlined three more of their bunch. Then, a substantial choice of incendiary cocktails and shurikens forced me to move.</p><p>The hoodlums aimed to flank me, to get close; at hand-to-hand combat range. Luckily, there were vehicle wrecks everywhere, even one charred bus skeleton. Helped me to avoid projectiles someone kept tossing from a hiding spot. I emptied Kurapika's pistol first, not a single bullet wasted. Exhausted the pin-gun, safe for one needle, when they dragged me out from my covers into the open. I preserved one needle for that annoying projectiles' thrower. Ducked and punched, and kicked my way out. Each bully had a fair chance to try me. Each one ended up with a snapped neck or a fatal opened injury to the limb. Some big baldie with a single braid dangling from the back of his head grabbed me by the collar. He attempted very hard to throw me face-first on the ground. We twirled around, until a shuriken meant for me, dug deep into the side of his gleaming skull. Before he dropped to his knees, I tilted to the side, and checked the direction the projectile came from. A petite brunette crouched behind a tar-covered cart filled with coal. A handful of throwing stars in her grasp. I pulled the trigger. Head-shot.</p><p>With the most irritating factor out of the way, and being out of bullets, I could indulge the remaining six in a melee. None of them stood a chance. I did a quick job, killing them with their weapons. Soon, the dead bodies littered the ground. Guts were still steaming, blood pools still liquid. Silence fell over the place again. A moment to take a breath. And to reload. Meanwhile, I checked the windows, hoping to see what was going on inside. Entering through the main door was out of question.</p><p>Before I had a chance to make my mind, the earth quivered. Something enormous was approaching – it clattered, tinkled, puffed and blew. My eyes grew wider. A monster of a man stood in front of me. He wore some type of medieval scale mail, and a dragon mask. The guy was <em> heavy </em> . 230 kilograms easily. That body was his best protection. I took pride in my claws, but even they seemed meek in comparison with those meaty layers of fat. Shooting needles, even bullets? An awful waste. Even if they pierced through mail, they would get stuck somewhere in him, and he wouldn't even feel it. The giant wasn't stupid either. His face, eyes, ears, places where I could cause him some lethal injury – he covered them under a helmet. The fatso might be moving slow, but should he be persistent, he would be a pain in the ass. A <em> huge </em> pain. He as much as tripped and fell over me – and I was a pancake. Better not to let him even touch me.  </p><p>The big guy spread his legs, bent, leaned forward, and rushed, extending his plump, yet deadly arms. I swirled out of his way, slashing his back with my claws, as he passed me. As predicted – he didn't even notice. Good scale armour. Old-fashioned, maybe, but when it does the trick, then who cares. Before he slowed down, he stopped on a metal grating, emitting a loud ding. I aimed Kurapika's pistol and fired twice at the helmet. Both bullets bounced off. If I forced him to stop with his head a few more times, he'd black out.</p><p>The fatty turned around, stomped his elephant's legs, and charged again. I was standing in front of the window, preparing to duck. Before I had a chance, window glass behind me shattered, and a pair of strong arms pulled me inside the building. Moments later, I felt a garotte tightening around my throat. Thank goodness for reinforced high collars and needles around them.  </p><p>“Goh yim, boysh,” the hoodlum sputtered. “Goh yim!”  </p><p>He dragged me into the middle of the spacious hall, ceiling supported by many columns. I tossed, and kicked, and arched my back, sliding a few fingers between the suffocating string and my throat. When the line rested on my palm, I pushed it with all the might I could muster. The happy knave got yanked forward, his nose slammed against the back of my head. We dropped to the floor, but I was the quicker one to plant my heel into his toothless mug. He jolted, spasmed, then stopped moving.  </p><p>I got up to my knees when a fist grabbed my hair and yanked my head. </p><p>“Nah, e-e-it can't-t-t be.” A blond stutterer with beautiful light green eyes whistled, assessing my person. Striking resemblance to Tserriednich. “S-s-such a dolly an ass-ass-ass-ah-ah–” A steel claw slashed his vocal cords. He gargled for a few more seconds, before he suffocated. Put him out of his misery, that one.</p><p>Before long, eager brutes swarmed me. They were waving their blunt weapons, throwing their fists, trying to grab me or immobilize me. Not a chance. When I was out of bullets, I broke limbs and snapped necks in quick succession. It's the easiest way to make sure someone dies. For real. A hole in the body, even close to the heart, doesn't necessarily mean the target won't breathe. Human shell – so fragile, yet so lasting. I should know. It gave me quite a shock at times, what amount of maltreatment it can take, and still work. Unless the heart is pounding its last in your hand, you never know for sure, if your many-many hits did enough damage. But one cannot live with one's neck snapped, too.</p><p>I heard the taser's electric bite delivered to the protective waistband hugging my torso. Didn't feel a thing, but the sound startled me a bit. Two guys jumped at me. One got behind me, and locked my arms, allowing his colleague to unload his rage. The man used my exposed front as if it were a punching bag. His brass knuckles connected with my stomach, my sides, stomach again. Then pectorals and liver – almost felt that one, but not quite – and then one hit to the jaw. A hard smack. My head jolted to the side; blood escaped from split gums. Felt the place with my tongue. Teeth seemed to be intact.</p><p>“Jerk!” the bandit behind me growled. “Magician said not to damage the face!”  </p><p>The hall sighed with Hisoka's soft sigh coming in from all directions.  </p><p>“Was it you who broke my only rule, Dovey?” Morow asked in a loving tone.  </p><p>The jester observed the events unfold from some safe vantage point. A room controlling all the cameras, loudspeakers, and monitors. The control room he mentioned, an entry to which I didn't even have a chance to start searching for. Kill was so close, yet he seemed so distant. It felt as if I spent ages trapped in this god-damned hall with those god-damn goons. No progress whatsoever.  </p><p>A slot opened in the wall to the right of the main entrance, and a machine gun slid out. It rotated a tad, before it released a short burst of fire. The one who slugged me in the jaw dropped dead. It wasn't hard to kill his mate. He lost focus, as he watched his colleague being torn by bullets.  </p><p>“Sorry for that, Illumi,” Hisoka apologized in earnest. “Some of these boys are simple fellows. You tell them twenty times not to break your toys, yet they'll still do it.”  </p><p>I spat the blood out, and moved to the door leading further inside the station. To my left, a remote sound of many people rushing down the stairs. Behind me, the heavyweight combatant made his next appearance. He manifested in the main entrance, then stepped inside, taking the door and its frame with him. The guy took a running attempt to render me smoother than I already was. To the left another squad appeared. Quite a cohort. 50 men and women if not more. Some of them had firearms for a change. It was a bowling time.</p><p>Dashing to the sides, I lured my humongous oppressor to go all-out, straight at the arrived guests. He stampeded through the crowd, tossing people aside like they were skittles. Most definitely he killed some of them in the process. Using the chaos and puzzlement, I finished off some five or six souls, before they started shooting at me. The hall's ceiling rested on wide columns, so I had some place to hide. The enemy number wasn't that big of a deal. Every time I peeked from behind my hiding spot, someone departed from this world. But what to do with the big guy? He posed a problem. And then, it dawned on me. Hisoka offered the solution by disposing of Dovey the way he did. Thought I could clear the room with it. Even the fatso's mass couldn't take all that lead, could it?</p><p>Sliding column to column, I reached the wall, and ripped the machine gun out of its bed. It was whole, and it had a long belt of unused ammo attached. It would do. I aimed it, and pressed the trigger. Some ruffians noticed what was brewing, and tried to shift directions. The muzzle of the fully automatic whizzed. Helter-skelter, everybody. A constant burst of fire cut everything and everyone on its path. The gun heated in my hands in the blink of an eye. Bullet shells bounced to the side, dropping with tiny metallic tinkling. The blaring 'rah-tah-tah-tah-tah' filled my ears. Smoke and oil stench rose to my nostrils. A mist of dust, disintegrating furniture, and splintered column bits obscured the view. I was squeezing the trigger, until the gun couldn't spit out any more bullets. Only then, had I dropped the steaming weapon to the floor. The silence was deafening. Nobody moved. Nobody coughed blood nor growled in pain. I had all reasons to believe I cut them all down.</p><p>“Such a killjoy.” Hisoka broke the stillness of the moment. I could almost picture him pouting. “You and your efficiency.” He sighed. Or moaned. Hard to tell. “How are you holding, Illumi? Are you still hard to get? Or are you warming up a little?”</p><p>I said nothing, staring at the damaged tile. Couldn't let those words get to me.</p><p>“No dilly-dally. Otherwise, I'll have to help myself with the next thing closest to me that reminds me of you.”</p><p>Mind over matter. No talking. Reacting in anger would be as bad. Don't engage in a prattle with the crazy. Find your brother, and try not to breathe your last while at it. That deranged loony didn't spare himself the trouble. He kidnapped Killua – not an easy feat in itself. He invited his 'friends' in a number that could fill the whole opera house. Furthermore, he found an adequate location to stage that little amusement park for mental cases. Such a man is capable of anything. Caught me like a rat in a trap. <em> That </em> was impossible, yet, there I was, steeling my resolve. Only for Kill could I bring myself to stoop so low. Even lower, in fact.</p><p>With a pin-gun ready, I kicked open the door leading further in. Nobody on the other side. Only an illuminated corridor and many doors. Couldn't be bothered to check each one of them. Morow mentioned Kill was unconscious. I didn't know what kind of drug he used on him, other than he had to use a lot of it to sustain the effect. Despite his training not being complete, Kill developed a tolerance for most common dazing substances.</p><p>When I was about to take a left turn, I heard panting. And the rattling. And heavy stomping. Energy escaped my body at the mere thought. Mind over matter – the helpful inner voice kept reminding. I groaned internally nonetheless. Cursed that man, and whoever birthed him. At least Heavyweight didn't emerge from my shooting rampage unscarred. His whole gargantuan frame – punctured with red bleeding dots. The scale male – broken, and so was his dragon face bascinet. It still sat there, skewed, but now I stood a chance to tear it off him. As weird as it might sound – one orifice in his head was all I needed to put him down for good. Fired all two remaining needles at the armoured head. My only victory was getting the helmet tilted even more to the side. Not my pins' fault. My arms were getting tired. I was burning fuel, running at my highest performance; who knew for how long. But I had more tools at my disposal. Milluki replenished my miniature hooks supply I lost after the arrest. These hooks were curious little fellows. You couldn't tell what you will use them for, and when the right opportunity would arise.</p><p>The big guy growled, assuming the position I knew too well. The narrow passage was more to his advantage than mine. Not exactly perfect for either of us. That body filled the space between side walls near completely. A crazy thought crossed my mind. Should I run in circles, letting him chase me, sooner or later he would drop from a heart attack. But I was done running. Kill awaited. I reached for a handful of hooks attached to my belt with long nylon strings. Wrapped my right hand in my sleeve's fabric, tearing it in process. Fatso pounced at me, like a rabid rhino. I spun my hooks round and round, awaiting the right moment. It arrived when Heavyweight bent a little further forward. He tried to stretch his arms, but there was not enough room for that. The hooks flew, aimed at the helmet. When they connected, I dived between monstrous legs, my back sliding on the tiles. The lines tautened in my grasp when they met stronger resistance. Even though I protected my hand, I could feel the thin strings burn into my skin. I got rotated at the first jolt, to the sight of the massive back. Then metal clanged on the floor, as the dragon mask rolled to standstill. Hook lines gave me shallow cuts across my palm, but I barely registered any pain. Aimed Kurapika's semi-automatic at the back of the finally exposed head. Pulled the trigger… To the sound of a dry click. Crap. Heavyweight had more luck than he knew. Hisoka must have been laughing his head off.  </p><p>The guy turned to face me. Stainless-steel blades slid out of my bracelets with metallic, resonant clang. The ceiling hung high. I should be able to make it, even though it had been a while since I last trained acrobatics. Half a year out of practice. Quite a gap. My only worry was those deadly arms. They grabbed me, and could squeeze the insides out of me, like I were a tube. This round Heavyweight wasn't the only one charging. I sped, to meet him halfway the corridor. When his arms extended, I jumped on the right wall, my world tilted 90 degrees. Ran up, twisted my whole body, to dig the claw into his broad shoulder. When the left blades anchored deep in, I propelled myself forwards, to straddle that mountain of a man. Before he halted, I had my claw locked behind his collarbone. He was tossing, so much so, I had to risk it, and wrap my legs around his thick throat. Not that I hoped to strangle him. There was too much skin and fat for that. I welcomed more stability, though. Plucked out one needle from my coat – a long one. Fatso bounced from wall to wall, trying to flatten me out. His plump yet formidable fingers clenched my knee. I expected the right kneecap to shatter any moment. His other hand tried to pry me off his back. The guy was intimidating, and sharper than his dead mates. Heavyweight knew to stay upright. I latched myself too high for him to crush me between his back and the wall; or his back and the floor for that matter. The needle glistered between my fingers, aimed at the opening of his ear. Shoved it in. Deep in. Fattie's whole body wobbled; his motions incoherent, disorganized. Blood trickled down from his right ear where my needle's head shined elegantly. It was high time to evacuate before he fell. I landed on slippery tiles, massaging the maltreated kneecap, happy it was still in order.  </p><p>The floor shook, when the giant collapsed. I leaned my back against the wall, and slid down to sitting position. One moment for big brother to catch his breath, Kill. Almost there.  </p><p>“You truly must dread the notion of friendship.” Hisoka's voice came through loudspeakers. “You've slain <em>all</em> my friends.” He wasn't sorry saying that. In all honesty, he sounded quite delighted. “I was right in thinking Snowflake will hold the longest.”  </p><p>I glanced at Snowflake. Dead at last. Only then I noticed it – he had a short white hair, as if frost-covered. Like a snowflake. Unfortunate choice of nick-name. No matter how tough they act, snowflakes always melt. Granted, some will give you a big headache before they do.  </p><p>“He was the only one actively fighting in the ring. The rest – mere contenders that hoped to join our little secret entertainment circle.”  </p><p>And so, he lured them in such a number by selling them bullshit that whoever defeated Zoldyck first, would receive an invitation to the Fight Club. A trial of sorts. That he sent them to their deaths was beside the point. Nary a word. It was revolting to think I already knew how that depraved mind operated.  </p><p>“Mmm, the way you move–” He clicked his tongue into the microphone. “Candy for the eyes. Don't loiter. Can't wait to show you your brother.”  </p><p>With an exasperated groan, I brought myself up. Dragged my feet forwards, stumbling every other step. Each bone in my body cussed my care of them, now that the adrenaline was wearing off. I moved despite every cell in my body demanding rest. Mind. Over. Matter. And finally, when I was almost descending to all fours – a door. Hidden. It looked like an ordinary panel. If it wasn't unlocked and ajar, I'd have never noticed it. The concealed entrance to a fabled room.  </p><p>“Get inside,” Hisoka invited from the loudspeakers. “There aren't any bad guys left...”  </p><p>I stepped in. Were it not for the bluish glow of many monitors, and control keys glimmering on the far end, it would be pitch-black.  </p><p>“Truth be told” – I heard Morow’s voice behind me, loud and clear, no interferences – “I'm the last man standing. I'm no threat. Well, a threat to your rear, perhaps. But isn't that just a matter of perspective?”  </p><p>I plucked out a needle before I realized what I was doing. It flew. I wasn't thinking, I just... tossed it on reflex. Aimed it well, and should it be anybody else, it would land between the eyes. Yet, it was Hisoka, someone not to trifle with. I was holding together only so. A weakling in comparison to that fountain of vitality dressed in a sagging rag. The ugliest sweater I've ever seen in my life. It was so repulsive and tasteless; it required a monument. Needless to say, he dodged my pin with an ease that made me sick to my stomach.  </p><p>“Losing your temper?” He moved his palm over his rusty sweater, as if to dust it off. Next, he raised something to his eyes level. It had a red, big button on top, and a wire underneath. I trailed the cord to the pulpit, and to the glassy surface on the far wall. Hisoka flipped the light switch on. The space across the control room got brightly illuminated. The glass turned out to be a one-way mirror. On its other side sat a small person. It was Kill. The floor tiles – as if covered with a layer of translucent reflective varnish. It created an impression of Kill swimming in a fog of glow. He was bound to a massive chair. Only it wasn't any simple chair. It was an electric chair. I gulped; I came close to frying my brother. Felt mortified. I swayed on my legs, almost dropping to my knees.</p><p>More light now bled through the half-silvered mirror. It was the famous illegal interrogation room all right. Dusty, dirty, but not forgotten. Re-adjusted. Monitors dead for years hung next to the ones revived by the Phantom Troupe. Ripped cables were coming out of walls. They were cascading over many screens and tall installations that looked like lockers. Something soughed and whistled inside them. Some kind of machinery, generators or servers. Milluki would know. Few silent pulpits to both sides of the area. The main one faced the mirror, and it was operational – with switches, plethora of buttons, and knobs. Recorders and phones, some silent and ancient, some renovated, all mixed up together. Tapes, a lot of them, in oval caskets. Made me wonder what would I found on them should I take some home. What were the police's shifty methods, apart from not very well concealed? All that apparatus like remnants of the ugly past. The stench of old grease, and oils used to keep all the devices running, hung heavy in the air. I had all reasons to believe the electric chair connected to Hisoka's switch was working. I moved my hands up, surrendered.</p><p>“Why is he unconscious?” I asked.  </p><p>“Chloroform.”  </p><p>A filthy lie. It shouldn't affect Kill. Little brother must have played possum so well, he managed to trick the trickster. Commendable if so.  </p><p>“I near ran out,” he lied on. “You Zoldycks are on another level.” </p><p>“If you as much as touched him–”  </p><p>"Relax. He isn't the one I want to touch. It wouldn't have come to this if you were… more friendly with me. I tried to be blunt about it. Yet, my words fell on deaf ears. There was a time I feared there's nothing in the world that would make you tick. And then I noticed it; the way you mellow out each time the topic of your brother comes up.”  </p><p>“Kill is more than a brother to me. He means a lot to the whole Zoldyck family. You hurt him, and you will have us all after your head.”</p><p>Morow chortled, motioning at me to get closer to the mirror. He didn't have to. My feet took me there on their own. I watched for bruises, cuts, swollen skin, blood. Couldn't notice any. Kill's clothes were torn. He put up a fight. Props for the effort, but he wasn't ready to take on someone like Hisoka. Oh no. He was far from ready. Not sure if <em> I </em> was ready.</p><p>“You were doing fine, uncovering dirty secrets of Yorkshin's most despicable inhabitants.” Morow's lips dabbed my ear as he babbled on: “I followed your example. I investigated <em>you</em> thoroughly. What I found was an unsurprising fact, that you are not much different from us. Only because you're not hiding how you earn your bread; doesn't mean you have nothing else to hide.”</p><p>“Cut the bull crap,” I demanded.</p><p>“My point is, I uncovered your little secret. It's over there, right in front of you.” He pointed at Kill; my brother's silver head was still lolling over his chest. By then I was pretty sure Kill was pretending. “It's not my intention to hurt the boy. His well-being depends entirely on your attitude.”</p><p>Kill's acting made him appear so peaceful, but also so vulnerable. Part of me wanted to break the glass, and shield him. Part of me wanted to lash him for getting caught. I taught him to run away from danger. He ran away from me fine. Why did he fail to evade Hisoka? Baffling.</p><p>“Just look at you ogling him.” Hisoka murmured, nuzzling my neck. “I bet he'll figure out how to escape. After all, you mentor him, right? Think you can entertain me until it happens?”</p><p>I closed my eyes, cooling my nerves. Mind over matter.  </p><p>Hisoka wasn't mistaken. My love for Kill moved beyond brotherly. Never acted upon it, though. Never laid my hands on him, not in an inappropriate manner. But the Yorkshin sin-stained streets knew, how hard it was to restrain myself. Kill was perfect, and to a certain extent my creation. I taught him, moulded him. It was only natural I grew to love what I helped shape. My fire for Kill burned cold, always invisible. Undetectable by anyone who wasn't searching specifically for it. Such fires are not easy to quench. I tried to distance myself. I took job after job, just to be away from him. Yet, the flame would burn, and burn. Sometimes even brighter, the longer our separation lasted.  </p><p>We all have cravings we don't want others to know. Kill was mine. It was also the kind of secret that could disgrace me in the eyes of my own blood. Should I kill Hisoka now, that he uncovered it? He didn't seem to be willing to flap his tongue on the subject. He'd rather keep it as a leverage against me. Still, it was a reason to make him eat dirt one day. I duly noted that in my memory. Now was not a good time to make threats.</p><p>“Put it away.” I pointed at the switch. “I will comply. Cast this thing aside. I don't want you to press it by accident.”  </p><p>“Sure.” Morow shrugged. “So that you know: I never show all my cards. Do something unaccounted for, try to put your fingers in my eye sockets, and the Zoldyck heir is toast. You catch my drift?”  </p><p>Two simple workbenches brought together blocked access to the mirror and the pulpit. On one of the tables laid boxes with various utility tools. The control room swam in small bluish lights, coming from monitors. Red, green and yellow squares and dots shone through buttons on the pulpit. A soft afterglow came in from the brightly lit space across the mirror. Other than that, it was all sunk in shadows. Impossible to say if there were additional contraptions around the chair. Or in the observation room itself. I could imagine plenty of things that Morow could use to electrocute my brother, or harm him in any other way. He didn't spare himself the trouble to set it all up. Even if he was bluffing, I wouldn't dare risking my brother's life. Hisoka was too dangerous a man. I forced my heart beat into a calmer pace, took a breath, and said:</p><p>“I won't try anything.”  </p><p>“Cross your heart and hope to die?” He smirked.  </p><p>I nodded. “You can have me. Kill me if you want. But my brother; don't take it out on him more, than you already have.”  </p><p>“Now, let’s not act over-dramatic.” Hisoka secured the switch – a plastic cover flopped down. “You sated my blood-lust with your glorious performance. There remains only one lust left to appease.”  </p><p>He put the switch on the dusty shelf. I took off my claws, and placed them next to it. There was something ritualistic about it – suspension of hostilities. A second later his fingers were in my hair, yanking my head to the side. Hisoka sniffed loudly close to my ear, inhaling the stench of sweat, blood, and dirt as if it was a perfume to him. Or he could still smell the adrenaline rush on me. No doubt someone like him would find the reek of it alluring. He let a lewd purr out, and moved to the workbenches, sat on the free one, and patted his lap, beckoning me closer. I obeyed.  </p><p>“I may not look it, but I developed a minor interest in psychology,” he stated in a conversational manner. And started unbuttoning my vest. “So, I was chatting with doctor Wing the other day. I told him: 'Listen, Wing. There is this guy. Sharp mind, body to die for, face like a dream, extremely dangerous. Just how I like them. But there's something defective about him. Every time I make a move, he seems unable to think about anybody else, but his teenage brother. I suspect he's wired wrong.'”  </p><p>When he had my upper body exposed, Morow got rid of his rusty sweater and the top underneath. His muscular chest was like a road map, covered with longer and shorter paths of scars. Some old, some fresh, some thinner, some wider. Even a few round reminders of bullet wounds like craters on the otherwise smooth plane. He wore on himself his way of living, much like I did. Only my souvenirs were less visible, if not more numerous, well blended in. Hisoka threw his clothes in a random corner of the room, and proceeded with unbuckling my belt. He narrated on:  </p><p>“So, I asked: 'How do you fix someone like that because, doctor, this is <em>such</em> a waste.' Wing said: 'No-can-do.' 'But Wing,' I pressed –” He yanked me closer.  </p><p>The trousers slid off my ass, and dropped to the floor. I stepped out of them, listening, even though my attention was on Kill. I searched for any sign of holes in his perfect act. No shortcomings, no imperfections. A natural talent. Should I not know chloroform had a null effect on him, I'd believe he blacked out. Yet, he was listening to his surroundings instead.</p><p>Hisoka ran lean fingers along my exposed, bruised, hurting skin. The thugs didn't spare themselves. Apart from pummelling all over me, they managed to leave a few cuts. The blood already started to scab. Other than that, I felt only exhausted. More mentally than physically. He carried on:</p><p>“'There must be <em>something</em> I can do.' 'Well,' Wing said, 'There is this trick I can let you in on'.</p><p>Morow grabbed me by the jaw, forcing me to glower away from the electric chair and into his golden eyes. His thumb massaged the bruise Dovey left there.</p><p>“You see, Illumi,” he said, a warm hand sliding down my lower back. The middle finger pressed the point of his greatest interest. “I hear 'trick' and I go bonkers. All I've done so far was to override this little brain damage of yours. So please, gaze at your small treasure all you want. Feast your eyes, and connect everything I do however you see fit.”</p><p>He pushed me away a little. I took two steps back, naked like the day I was born. Hisoka fished out a tube from his pants pocket, tossed it in the air, grabbed it, and placed it on the workbench with a thud. It was a lube. It had an intense luminescent pink colour. Just like the cloth he strangled Big Booba with, it had the shade of pink that made you want to claw your eyes out. It could as well contain a deadly virus. Then Morow took off his pants and underwear, sit back on the table, and patted the front of his thighs.  </p><p>“Jump, Illumi,” he invited.  </p><p>Before I managed to take a step, Morow outstretched his arm to halt me. “Uh-uh-uh. That's not what the prophecy foresaw. Let's try this again. <em> Jump, Illumi </em>.”  </p><p>My fists locked in bunches of fives without me realizing it. All my life I walked convinced I had no self-esteem to speak of. It took someone as vile as Hisoka to prove me wrong. There wasn't much of it, though. One glimpse at Kill sufficed to wash away any pride I ever had.  </p><p>“How high?” I asked in a monotone, face wooden.  </p><p>“About this high.” His hand hovered at his pelvis level.  </p><p>I blinked once and leaped on the workbench with more or less grace, then balanced myself to upright position. Hisoka was admiring every inch of me, while I lowered myself to straddle him. I pay it no mind. Mum's teachings. There's no shame in nudity – she reasoned. People pay money to watch naked sculptures of ancient gods. Or paintings of cloth-free plump ladies with rosy cheeks. 'Imagine you are like them' – Kikyo said. 'A mere object, a sculpture, or a painting. Be a soulless thing for as long as it takes to do what must be done.' Her school had another level to it. Objects feel no pain, no shame, and even if they do, they don't betray it. She would often pinch me on the cheeks, sometimes the other cheeks as well, and watch my reaction. Or the lack of it. And she beamed. Always. I was a good student. And I loved my mum.  </p><p>Soon, I found myself trapped in a tight embrace of strong arms, capable of an amateurish heart pull-out. A small puff of air from the pressure on my ribcage was all the sound he got. Morow grabbed my butt, and began spreading and squishing it, as if it were a dough, and he – a toiling chef. His eyes were inspecting my impassive face, testing how well he could read me. He couldn't. Not at all. </p><p>I fixated on the illuminated room. The beauty of being a professional assassin lies in skills. You gain so many of them, hardly any situation you find yourself in can be labelled as hopeless. It was as much true for me, as it was for Kill. His chest was heaving, steady. A marvellous display of faking unconsciousness. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. To hell with his short-sighted big brother.</p><p>And then, finally, Kill dropped the act. He didn't drop it instantly, no. He sustained all the pretence of coming to. Right like I taught him. Blue eyes surveyed the surrounding. The cables, the glass, the electric chair, the binds,<em> the floor </em>. His nostrils flared. Out of the sudden, Kill glared somewhere past me, pupils blown, mouth agape. What he spotted on the semi-transparent surface, made him crane his neck, to have a peer behind. Only then I noticed it too. The floor was slippery. What I mistook for varnish turned out to be oil – something combustive. Against the far wall stood gas cylinders under pressure. Little wires meandered between them, going along the bottom edge of walls and vanishing into the control room. If there were explosives attached to them, Morow masked them well. His hidden card. If only the first and the last one. It detonated before my brother could get away, and it was game over. Death in flames – a horrible end.</p><p>“I know what sets it off,” Hisoka mumbled into the curve of my neck. His hands clamped on my sides. “Don't try to be smart. If you are, I might get nervous, and my finger could slip.” And he pulled on my hair. My head flew to the back. Even so, my eyes, as well as my mind, were still with my brother.</p><p>Kill moved on the chair, checking how well stripes were holding. Then he cracked his adorable smirk, the one I loved so much. He looked from under his silvery eyebrows at the glass in front of him. Our eyes met for a heartbeat.</p><p>“Oi, asshole,” Kill's voice sounded in the control room. It came through speakers, a bit muffled, a tad distorted. His tone was steady, not too loud. “I know you're there. You want to untie me right this instant, before I do it myself. Lest you be sorry.”</p><p>Teeth grazed the skin of my throat. First Pariston, now Hisoka. The madmen always go for the throat. Hence, the reason for hiding it behind high collars.</p><p>Manipulating his wrist, Kill probed how much free space there was to work with. He kept scanning the glass, hoping against hope to see anything other than his reflection. Part of me gazed back for unspeakable reasons. The more organized part only wanted to assess how well he'd do. Little brother found himself in mortal danger. Yet, we prepared him for worse scenarios. He knew how to handle it. So, I was attentive, searching for mishaps, already planning our future training sessions. Also, I was getting dizzy.  </p><p>The first prickle came to me around then. Hisoka stuck his tongue in torn skin below my collar bone. One of many insignificant wounds his 'friends' gave me. He licked it clean, tasting blood, taking his time, even though I could feel him being more than ready. As far as I was concerned, I dwelt on the other side of the one-way mirror.  </p><p>Was there anything else, apart from the chair and the rigged gas tanks? Kill was taking too long. He should be running by now. What was stopping him? Something else in the room? All the monitors above were centred on Kill's face. I couldn't see much. Needless to say, I wasn't happy with his performance so far.  </p><p>“Let me out, you hear!” Kill shouted; always too quick to lose his temper. “You are a <em>dead</em> man!”  </p><p>Hisoka appeared unaffected, closed in his mind's temple. Two impatient fingers slid inside me. A sting in my neck, and soon the man's lips were travelling down my chest, to my nipples. Leorio discovered by accident that they were pretty sensitive places. Nothing I couldn't suppress. It was mind over matter after all. Should I not know better, I'd assume Morow completely forgot himself. But he was such a good actor, wasn't he? I wouldn't dare risking anything rush, even if it looked like I could get away with it. It wasn't about me. It was about giving Kill time to get out of there. The time he wasted on empty threats.  </p><p>“You don't know who you're dealing with, dork,” Kill screamed, jolting on the chair. “Wait until my brother learns about it. He'll feed you needles. He'll bury you so deep under, one will have to take a shovel, and dig a hole the depth of Komugi trench to find you! You'll be fucking begging for mercy, you fuck!”  </p><p>Stupid. Why was he wasting his breath? So many things wrong with how he chose to conduct himself in that deadlock. Howbeit, something in me opened because of it. I closed my eyes, trying to raise a wall – to direct my thoughts elsewhere. As much as I hated to admit it, I started to receive Hisoka's caresses. My breath hitched, and I cursed myself.  </p><p>“The boy has quite an imagination.” Morow's tongue snaked its way into my ear. Mind over matter – and goosebumps dared not appear to give me away. “Should we let the little one see how his big brother manhandles his kidnapper?”  </p><p>“Leave him out of this,” I reminded.  </p><p>“I'd love to see his expression.”  </p><p>I sank my nails in Hisoka's shoulder, drawing blood, and pierced him with my warning stare. I was not having that. He'd break the promise, and I'd crush his windpipe. Morow was only safe for as long as Kill was breathing, and standing a chance to run.  </p><p>“If you knew how this glare affects me, you'd stop gazing at me like that, Illumi. Don't be shy. The room is soundproof. Let me hear your voice.”  </p><p>Slim fingers pressed inside me, but I didn't give him what he aimed for. If Killua hadn't opened his mouth, I wouldn't have to be listening to those wanton invites.  </p><p>Unless there was a physical obstacle preventing him from acting, there was no excuse for Kill's indecisiveness. I hoped it wasn't some silly mental barrier. If the brother were quick about it, I'd have all the time in the world to snap the clown's neck. And tear out his artery while at it. And to dismember him with my bare hands. <em>No, you fool! </em>– a voice of reason scolded me. <em>What if Morow</em> <em>placed explosives on him? What if Hisoka planted a timer on Kill only he can disarm? Do you want him blown up to pieces, like Headsman blew up Pairo? You will sit here, and pay the price for what you've instigated. You will let the man rip your septum out, and fuck your brain through your brand-new nostril if he so wills it. </em>Right<em>. </em>Hisoka could have been a demented pervert, but stupid – he was not. No more moves to take. Not with Kill's life on the line.  </p><p>I felt another bee's sting, and out of the blue Hisoka was shoving my cock down his throat. When did we get there? One moment he was whispering perversities into my ear, and the next I was hard enough for him to choke on me. Where did the time go? Something was off. I skimmed my eyes over him or wanted to… But my motions seemed sluggish<em> . </em> As if an invisible, dense jelly filled the space. It was redolent of sweet cherry. Hisoka noticed my head turn – <em> slooowly </em> – and his hand darted forward at lightning speed. Only an after-image of his motion for my eyes to follow. <em> So slow</em>. A yank on my hair. My head moved through the jelly to where the yanking wanted it to go. Concentration – torn and full of holes, like an old rag. Losing time was the worst part.  </p><p>A chair rocked on the other side. Someone was trying to tip it over. The low 'thump' 'bump' far away and the wet 'smack' 'slap' much closer. The chair banging on the floor, and the slippery ins and outs around my erection matched in harmony. Not only time was I loosing, but breaths, too. The cherry pudding was warming up. It built up a heated nest around me. In a galaxy far away – a single sigh. It could be me; it could be the other guy. What was his name again?</p><p>In the corner of my eye – the silver hair. No one in particular told me that I should watch that boy. Were I of sound mind then, I’d ask, why was I not in straddling position any more. Instead, I found myself sitting on the workbench. My legs spread wide, were giving someone full access to my genitals. My head swayed to the sides like a leaden pendulum. Left and right, and left and right… Tick-tock, like a clockwork. The sticky substance bore heavy on my eyelids. It took all my strength to opened my eyes. Some rusty blotch of hair was bobbing in front of me. Tick-tock. The dense jelly – no longer invisible. Pink mucus dripped from the walls. Soon it covered them whole. Pudding was coming out from the gaps between floor tiles. It was departing from the ceiling in long elastic blobs. Then my heavy lids shut again. Tick-tock.</p><p>It seemed like eternity, before I managed to glimpse at the illuminated world on the other side. It was so clean, so orderly. No trace of the aggressive pink infestation. Only one kid dwelt there. I couldn't quite place the name. Poor shorty, tied to a throne. He didn't want to sit on it, but he was bound to it. A heart-breaking view. I loved that boy like I would a brother. Why was he so alone in there? His fists clenched, so were his teeth, determination on a pale, sweating face. A king who didn't want to rule. An urge to laugh overcame me. Those junkies expected the ant king to be some alien deity. Yet, all that time it was him – a small boy who only wanted to play. He came to me sharp and blurred, sharp and blurred. Wavy – as if there hung a wrinkled membrane of disturbed water between us. The cherry jelly kept pouring in. It was filling the room, swallowing me whole, throbbing and pulsing – warm. Too warm. I was sweating, overheating. </p><p>“Open the window,” I said under my breath. I feared louder words would be too heavy even for the compacted jelly to hold. And they would sink. And nobody would find them. Lost forever. Lonely little words of mine. So few and far between.  </p><p>“What for?” a playful voice replied.  </p><p>“It's too hot in here.”  </p><p>“It sure is.”  </p><p>“Can't move.”  </p><p>“Oh, I'll help you move.”  </p><p>A strong pull, and I was slipping down. The intrusive pink near solidified. I couldn't move a muscle. The sensation of falling down was minute, wee, but there. I trembled, and let a silent cry out, when I felt another prickle. My next complaint got consumed by a hungry mouth. Greedy lips pressed against mine, stole my breath, took in every sound I tried to make. I didn't ask for this. I only wanted for someone to open that god-damn window.  </p><p>“Aargh!” the bright side dweller growled. The small king jumped up on his throne. The silver crown moved side to side, as he struggled against his fate's binds.  </p><p>That poor kid. I should be there for him. If only I weren't trapped on the pink side. Still, I ought to try. I extended my arm to check if it would go past the mirror. It didn't. The glass was too far away. My rubbery fingers dropped on some surface, and slid off it. Like a dead weight. The mirror said: 'How adorable', and giggled. I'm so sorry, little king. The pink won't let me go. You are on your own.  </p><p>“Forget it!” The boy spat. “I'll <em>kill</em> you myself! I'll god-damn <em>murder</em> you! I'll <em>hang</em> you on your guts! I'll <em>cut</em> you to pieces! I'll <em>rip</em> you apart! You are fish food!”  </p><p>“<em>Oh.</em>” It started coming back to me. Kill? Yeah, it was him all right. Once upon a time, I feared he was rebellious and defiant. It turned out he was only scared for his life. Who wouldn't be; tied to a throne like that. If I ever lost hope, it was reinvigorated then. I felt uplifted to the point of exaltation. He was more than ready to take lives. He <em>wanted</em> it. Could hear it in his roar.  </p><p>“How is the trick working for you?” a question sounded, asked not in one voice but many. All familiar. A dual sound, one on another, buzzing like a badly tuned radio or a hornets' nest. I opened my eyes, but everything seemed blurry. Was it the red head, or was it the white head?  </p><p>I didn't even notice when Hisoka laid us on both workbenches. When did he manage to make room? On one of the tables rested many toolboxes, screwdrivers, empty film caskets, as far as I recalled. Now they were scattered on the floor. The many metal objects should have made a horrible raucous when he swiped them aside. This escaped me. I was so far gone. I could hardly see my brother from there. So, I didn't try. Out of the blue, he appeared on my side of the mirror.  </p><p>Kill and Hisoka shifted before me, like two images overlapping in quick succession. Their lines – fuzzy, colours uneven, shadows fluid, features recognizable, though not quite there. And shifting, shifting. My mind spun, dazed, forcing me to close my eyes. Another bite. There was something wrong with me. Maybe I needed a doctor? And the doctor blinked in front of me. He was there for a split second, and then he was not. Touches and kisses filled my world.  </p><p>Soon I saw myself tugging on the red hair; or was it white? Or was it black? I yanked on short strands. Searched for clues in the yellow eyes. Asked forgiveness when they changed colour blue. Begged for help when they turned brown. I was returning deep kisses, exchanging hot breaths, and repaying with a bite for a bite. Every time our tongues met; I could feel a tangible scent of chocolate treats. Then it changed. I smelled anise cologne, and saw a ghost of an unlit cigarette sticking from smiling lips. Then it switched. And it was the sweet bubble gum stink some performer wore about himself like a copyright sign. Rinse and repeat. Then, the vision of broken glass out of nowhere. It appeared – flashed and disappeared. I furrowed, not knowing how to connect it with what was going on. I only knew it boded nothing nice. There were many things I didn't understand. Didn't know whom I was kissing. Didn't know who was licking wet stripes along my skin. Whose back was I scratching? Who would be wearing those bloody marks and dark bruises? Felt an urge to call out to the other only to hear whose voice would answer. But they taught me not to make unnecessary noises. What was the name to the one above me? I got trapped between options. Like a stuck vending machine, wanting to spit the can out, but uncertain which flavour was ordered.  </p><p>Something shook and constricted, and kept colliding inside me. Throbbing lust moved faster, reached deeper, hitting some place that made me bite on my fist. Only then it dawned on me, I was in pain. Bits of sharp broken glass reminded me of themselves. It was still remote; more like foreshadowing of things to come. Yet, it was the very thing that pulled me to the surface little by little. When you hurt, your nerves are your best friends. Sometimes they'll go so far as to shut your system down, if the ache is too much to bear. But I trained to take a lot of it, and remain conscious. As hazed as I was, my memory dug out the picture of my beheaded look-alike. Stuffed with shattered glass. So, this is how it felt. A twisted, unintentional prophecy, all right. I realized I could at least relax my muscles to ease the hurt. Didn't know why I kept them so clamped. Only no – the reality of it started to sink in. Whatever poison kept coursing through my veins, it got me strained; every muscle stiff. With whatever control that came back to me, I forced myself to loosen up; to minimize the damage. Even though, it seemed too little too late.</p><p>When the wave of stinging heat became beyond bearable, my thighs squeezed the other's sides, until his bones protested. I welcomed the first firm kick of sobriety, and hated it at the same time. I was hurting pretty bad. Muffled sounds sharpened as if someone suddenly jerked wool plugs out of my ears. I awoke to the clatter of the workbench hitting against the wall. A fast movement that had zero relation with tenderness. Morow went all out. His one hand rested on my hip, the other above my head pinned my arm to the table. His face lost somewhere in the curve of my neck. I shielded my eyes with my one free forearm, my teeth clenched so hard, it's a wonder the enamel didn't crack. At least the pain returned me to reality in which Kill was still alive and kicking. It wasn't only Hisoka's ribs snapping from the pressure my thighs put on them. Kill sacrificed his arm to get more space to slip out. Not a sound, not a single sob. Good choice. Took him too long, though.</p><p>We seemed to reach release at the same moment. All three of us.</p><p>The exciting friction and hurt blended. Telling the difference between suffering and pleasure became impossible. It accumulated, ready to erupt. My mind blanked out, and I felt erased. I dropped to the table, breathless, torn between need to scream in pain or from euphoria. So, I settled for silence. Hisoka rested on me, spread-eagled. His ear pressed to my chest, listening to the heart beat – the only sign betraying I was still among the living.  </p><p>The electric chair on the other side cracked, and fell over with a loud thud. An exhausted 'ugh' flew in through the loudspeakers. Metal clinked against metal. Some hectic panting, some fabric tore; another wave of rushed breathing. Kill spat out an elaborate cuss word I had never heard before. This foul mouth of his. Would it ever be corrected?  </p><p>“I underestimated your boy,” Hisoka breathed out, amused to no end. “He <em>did</em> get away.”  </p><p>It didn't take opening my eyes. I knew the chair was empty. My hearing followed vanishing footsteps. They soon dissolved into a hum that lingered in my mind, filling my ears with static. Kill was safe.</p><p>I was happy for him, but me? Nothing, to be proud of. The arousal came and went, like a tidal wave, leaving soaked and devastated land in its wake. A sad landscape called Illumi Zoldyck. Sad indeed. These kinds of pleasures were always fleeting for me. The very reason why I never chased them. A few seconds of elevation weren't worth a day of butt-hurt. Not in my book. More than a day – taking into consideration that Hisoka's malice was in the mix. As if he wanted to see if he could kill me with his violent fucking. He couldn't. Little did he know I was through worse perils. I've been prepared to sustain even more. Wanted to vomit right then, all the same. Not because of my body being taken advantage of. My mum always told me to treat it like a utility. A proper mindset makes all the difference. I knew techniques to cut my mind off; only couldn't do it that time. Had to be aware of my little brother's progress.</p><p>I'd offer much more than my mortal shell for Kill. Loved him. But Hisoka dishing out his want the way he did; it made me realize, I didn't want to love my brother like <em> this </em> . Morow's lovemaking, if you were kind enough to call it that, it was all carnal. Dirty, brutal, one-sided, selfish, focused on sating one's senses; it went only one way. With Kill, I wanted to <em> give </em>, not to take. And stopping at giving him skills to survive his profession would be the right turn to take… For now. I admired his person and potential, and almost got him electrocuted instead. Should I ever acted upon my urges, I could have broken him. How had I not seen it before? Some big brother you are. It didn't come to the worst, but the fear installed itself. It latched onto my heart. It wouldn't disappear until Killua was strong enough to take the helm of our family business. I'll make sure it happens. No excuses.</p><p>A turmoil in my head made me nauseous. The good thing that came out of this, I found motivation, and strength to restrain myself. Fear is a powerful motor, let me tell you.  </p><p>Hisoka broke my chain of self-pitying thoughts. His thumb ran along my lips, stretching them in a smile that had no right to appear on there.  </p><p>“If you smiled more often, you'd be killing it,” he shared.  </p><p>“Have needles for that.” I was relieved to hear my voice as washed off emotions as I liked it.  </p><p>“Did you know you grit your teeth when you come? Thought you could keep those little noises from me? You couldn't. But you put in a good effort, I'll grant you that.”  </p><p>Morow touched a place on my shoulder, and it burned. There were many stinging blemishes on my skin. Hisoka must have sunk his teeth in me more than once.</p><p>“There were moments when I wanted to eat you, you know? Sorry for the bite marks. Had a hard time to resist.” Hisoka got up, exposing me to the cold air. “I gave you what you desired yet believed would be forever out of your grasp. Am I not a miracle maker?”  </p><p>My stomach turned in a self-loathing somersault. I didn't reply. Not that he needed my words, anyway.  </p><p>“Like a true magician.” He conjured a playing card seemingly out of thin air, browsed me like I was some goods for sale, and smirked. “Please, do come back for more on one of those lonely days.”</p><p>I moved my heavy eyes to consider his self-satisfied profile. For a man so smart, he got so dumb once he was full of himself. Men like him often did. Hisoka revelled in his little victory, blinded to reality. Or my face was so perfectly unreadable. Never would I let what he did to Kill slide. The day I'll come back for him, and such a day will come, would be the day he'll regret he was ever born. No need to state it aloud, though. It's always better to show than tell.  </p><p>“Well, let's observe how this trick unfolds then, shall we?” he replied to my silence, and began picking up his clothes.</p><p>I wasn't entirely back yet. While examining the control room, I noticed something out of place. An empty syringe. I shrugged it off at first, too shaken, too confused to add two to two. Couldn't believe anything like that possible, even though it came to pass. Still, I saw the syringe, and it would come back to me on a roaring wave of regained sobriety. I was already in a cab; on my way home. I felt not only penetrated, but also dehydrated beyond humanly possible.</p><p> </p><p>Back in my room, I gulped two glasses of water, one after another, and stormed into the bathroom with a third glass in hand. Checked myself out in the mirror. It was a good thing I had a habit of shielding my neck. It looked awful, all bruised, scratched, covered with hickeys, and bite marks. Even so, it took me less than half a minute to find it. A small, reddened dot where the needle pierced the skin. Right there, below the left ear. It wasn't enough that I openly resigned myself to letting him do with me whatever he pleased. Morow still didn't trust me. I was many things, but deceiver I was not – assassination missions aside. Judged me by his own measure. What was it that Hisoka injected in me? Other than himself… There existed no drug so potent to render Zoldyck spaced out for so long. And where did he hide it? Should it not be for Kill, I'd never allowed it to– Wait a minute. There was another dot. And another one beside it, and another. Four shots to the neck alone. Pretty sure, I'd find more needle punctures if I cared to check myself whole up. I would eventually, in the shower. He kept feeding me drugs all that time, and I was none the wiser. That took some self-awareness and self-control. More than I thought him capable of. Back in the Fight Club I even told the bastard how long it takes for my system to deal with most toxins. And then he ran his initial test in 'Terpsichora'. Illumi, you damn imbecile! You rarely open that mouth, yet you still talk too much. I wanted to punch a fist into that stupid face of mine glaring back at me dumbstruck from the mirror. Anger boiled up inside, much like it did in the morning. I took a deep inhale. Mind over matter.</p><p><em> 'How is the trick working for you?' </em> – echoed at the back of my head. Mind over – <em> Crack! </em> And the mirror shattered to pieces. My reflection deformed, twisted much like me. I held my bleeding hand, blood oozing from many shallow cuts, red dripping on the ceramic tiles. Go and wash it away under the hot stream. Get a grip. Put yourself together, Illumi. Ever since the day started, I was one big pitiful wreck. This was no way for Zoldyck to behave. Shower first, though. Or maybe not.  </p><p>Kurapika snapped me out of my misery, but also delayed my cleansing session.  </p><p>I heard a knocking on the door, and when I opened it, I met Kurta's pale face. Bags formed under his bloodshot eyes.  </p><p>“Come with me.” He turned, and started to walk away. The back of his shirt was as scarlet as his eyes.  </p><p>I dashed back to the bathroom, and wrapped my hand in a generous amount of paper towels. Grabbed the first aid kit, and followed him to his apartment.</p><p> </p><p>*  </p><p> </p><p>“You want to have it disinfected and wrapped this instant,” I stated, opening the kit.  </p><p>“Leave it,” Kurapika demanded, no life to his voice, only a hollow sound. He sat on his bed. “We have Tserriednich to discuss.”  </p><p>“There is no talking business, with your back like that. You won't be able to do much if it gets infected. If you're stubborn, I'll call Leorio. Unlike me, in addition to treatment, he'll give you the talk.”  </p><p>Kurapika sighed, and took his shirt off. What a nasty sight. The skin – cut deep in at least 15 places. Some old wounds opened anew. Pus started cumulating here and there. Kurta didn't spare himself lashes. Speaking of which, I couldn't see that chain anywhere. Before he summoned me, Kurapika made sure his room looked at least presentable. It was a small miracle; I couldn't spot a droplet of blood on the carpet. The place appeared squeaky clean; taking into consideration what it witnessed not a full hour ago.  </p><p>I didn't realize my hand was trembling. Noticed it only when Kurapika placed his hand on mine.  </p><p>“What happened to you?” he asked, sounding uninterested. But it was tiredness and depression that spoke through him first.  </p><p>“I punched a mirror.”  </p><p>“Why would you do such thing?”  </p><p>“My lack of foresight almost killed my brother.”  </p><p>“I see.” And he drifted off to his thoughts.  </p><p>I knew what he was thinking about. At least my brother was alive. His cousin wasn't so lucky.  </p><p>“Remember to take care of it. You won't be able to do much if it gets infected,” he parroted me. Then he let me disinfect the mess of torn skin and blood his back turned into.  </p><p>Kurta let me work in silence. I figured, I'd give him a shot, a special one, the Zoldycks only, to make sure it heals fast. He let me go back to my room. Once there, I hastily treated my hand. It only seemed ghastly. The cuts, although many, were close to insignificant. Water washed the blood away, and it already looked better. When I returned with the right dosage of antiseptic, he was still sitting in the same place.  </p><p>“This is a herbal medicine,” I said, and he nodded in a slow motion. Kurta didn't care. I could be giving him an arsenic, and he'd just sit there turned into a statue of dolour. I brought a soothing balm with, too. Seeing Kurapika's lack of interest, I didn't bother telling him that.  </p><p>The whole process took half an hour. When I was through, I made sure everything held in place. I bandaged his whole torso, so that the balm-soaked gauze was sticking close to injuries. It was loose enough. I would be lying if I claimed Leorio's methods didn't rub on me a little.  </p><p>“Made up my mind,” Kurapika expressed in an empty voice. “I want Tserriednich dead.” He turned his reddened eyes on me. They were almost glowing. “I want to kill him myself. You will help me do it. Illumi.”  </p><p>“What about the rules of the civilized society?” I inquired, unsurprised.  </p><p>“The rules be damned!” he barked.  </p><p>That's right, detective. If you let me kill Tserriednich when I offered, Pairo would still be among us. This or something along these lines most likely plagued Kurapika's mind right then.  </p><p>“The only person I lived for is dead. And for it, so am I. I want the same fate for Pairo's murderer.”  </p><p>Kurapika had it in him. I noticed it on the very first day I saw his irritated eyes. To become a murderer, by seeking revenge? It was all fine with me, yet in a state of mind like his, people tended to do rushed things. And rushed things tend to bring calamities about. I'd hate to miss my ticket home because the leading detective on the Headsman's case had a nervous breakdown.  </p><p>“I can't say I disapprove,” I informed. “It is a major change of plans. We need to go carefully about it.”  </p><p>He exhaled loudly through his nose. When Kurapika spoke again, he sounded much calmer: “Don't think I've lost it. I realize it complicates matters. I still want to do this. They can execute me afterwards, for all I care.  </p><p>“It doesn't have to come to that. Let me sleep with it. I'll figure something out. Just give me a day or two. And don't do anything on your own.”  </p><p>“So, the tables have turned, huh? Am I as of now to report my every move back to you?” It was a teasing question; he smiled a sad smile when he said that.  </p><p>“That wouldn't hurt.”  </p><p>Greed is a fascinating trait. It is never content, no matter how many goods you've accumulated. If anything, it grows the wealthier you become. I suspected Chrollo already knew what it was that I wanted from him. With all those Spiders in my hereabouts, to keep a secret posed a challenge. But now we had a change of plans, and only about three weeks to see the case resolved. Chrollo's mind better be as sharp, as they said. I pinned my hopes on him, despite knowing one should never put all eggs in one basket. Yet, beggars can't be choosers. Especially not, when the best option was available from the starters. So, what did I have? Info about every little trinket Tserriednich squirrelled away in his secret room. Quite a fortune there, judging by the surrounding security. The gut-wrenching collection itself was worth a neat sum if you knew whom to offer such a trade. And Chrollo most definitely had the right connections. Let's add aiding his three mates to the bill, and it should seal the deal even for the greediest soul. I tried so hard. The master thief should appreciate that.  </p><p>“Oh, if you wonder where your issued pistol has gone; it is with me,” I said. “I'll return it once the doctor confirms you are capable of carrying a weapon.”  </p><p>Kurapika snorted, but nodded. Speaking of guns, a wild idea crossed my mind. So, I asked:  </p><p>“Detective, since our new approach calls for violence, do you think I could get back my pin-gun from the depository?”  </p><p>Because greed is never satisfied. If you can have two pin-guns, why settle for one?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Might makes right</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In my early childhood I learned about the congenital insensitivity to pain. Shortly after, while accompanying grandpa on a mission, I fell off a roof. Snapped my leg in two places. It was bad. To make things worse, my parents ordered the family medic not to feed me any painkillers while she patched me up. The agony was excruciating. In infirmary, feverish and whiny, I told Zeno that I envied those insensitive to pain. For that, I earned a slap across the face.</p><p>“Have you mulled over why that condition is so rare, boy?” he asked. I shook my head, embarrassed, and fearful for another smack. “Why, it's because those who have it tend to die rather fast. You can't stop what you can't feel. For them, shoving a hand into a red-hot oven doesn't rise any alarms. They have to learn what endangers them like we learn the ABC. Bottom line: pain keeps us alive, my boy. Jump for joy that you can embrace it.” And he pinched my slapped cheek. Although Zeno added to my misery that day, he helped me suffer through the injury. In wisdom lies strength.</p><p>What else it helped me with, was withstanding waves of nauseating ache while I tended to my sore anus. I cleaned and lubricated it with herbal balm, rumpling bedsheets with my free hand. At least Hisoka used protection. It would sting far worse otherwise. Smearing medicaments inside an abused rectal canal poses a challenge. There is no other means to enter it than to follow the culprit that did you wrong. I wanted to bite my finger off, once it was over. Exhausted, I collapsed on the bed. It is funny how mending can drain one's energy faster than the process that created the wounds. I slept like a log – belly down, face buried in the pillow. No dreams.</p><p>Next morning – same painful journey. At least I could sit on my butt like a human being. Did the washing, and hung my clothes in the bathroom to dry. I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror. All the punches, cuts, and swells received the other day had ripened. One big animate collection of bruises. It crossed my mind that – colours-wise – I looked quite like the Headsman's preys.</p><p>I grew to like the canteen. Or rather their splendid coffee. I hid the signs of maltreatment under the black turtle-neck, and opened the door. To the sight of Machi, knocking on my chest. When she noticed her mistake, she cleared her throat, before sulking:</p><p>“I was looking for you since yesterday. Where have you been?”</p><p>“Does it mean Chrollo is ready to see me?”</p><p>“Yeah. He'll be waiting in Shalnark's shop. You have till noon.”</p><p>“Thanks. I'll go grab some caffeine and be on my way.”</p><p>Machi walked with me to the main building, tossing discreet glances at my bruised jaw. She was smart enough not to waste her breath on asking pointless questions. We parted ways when we reached the stairs.</p><p>It was half past seven in the morning. Few people in the canteen. A couple of drowsy cops sipped their morning juice, and flipped through newspapers. I ordered a big coffee to go – the blackest, the bitterest, the strongest, no sugar. The radio was on. It aired a talk show. Two speakers discussed Neon's disappearance. Light was mourning. The prize for information about his daughter increased. In my estimation, it was still not high enough. The grieving father had a beef with Yorkshin Police Chief for a while now – one of the hosts said. From there on, Pariston versus Light stole the airtime.</p><p>“Nostrade spreads gossips,” the speaker reported. “He is of opinion that his kid going missing may have something to do with the new drug flooding the city. You know, the one, the source of which Hill's men are still unable to uncover.”</p><p>“These two are at each other's throats since forever,” the second host added. His voice rather exulted. “In Nostrade's book, whatever misery befalls him, it is always Pariston's fault.”</p><p>The phone rang and a listener gave the audience a piece of her mind. An elderly lady, judging by her shaky voice: “Do not believe a word of it. No one has done more for Yorkshin than Mr. Hill. And how is he repaid for his service? Nostrade, that foul lad! How <em>dares</em> he speak ill of Hill. Pariston is a saint. A saint! Blessed be his heart.”</p><p>The hosts agreed. The lady wished the Chief strength in dealing with Yorkshin misfits and hanged up.</p><p>“I wouldn't be so concerned,” one of the speakers summed up. “Word has it that Pariston <em>loves</em> when they hate him. Hostility only fuels his desire to fight crime, or so he says. If it isn't a win-win situation, then I don't know what is.”</p><p>And they laughed. Oblivious.</p><p>I grabbed my coffee, and walked down to Shalnark's workshop. I was looking forward to the upcoming meeting. Not only because it promised the end to the Headsman's investigation. I heard legends about Chrollo's ability to scheme and see through plans within plans. Curiosity was getting the best of me. But you know what they say about curiosity – it is rumoured to have killed the cat. I had to tread carefully around the Phantom Troupe's leader. No matter how charming or friendly, in the end, he was exactly that – a thief. The best of the best, too.</p><p>Shalnark was happy to see me – no big surprise there. Without further ado, he let me in the back room. The place looked much like it did the first time I saw it. A messy space, cramped with gutted out electronics and mechanical parts. Blinds were drawn. Everything appeared grey and dusty. A small oil lamp on a shelf – the only source of light. Cardboard boxes piled up high in one corner. On them, like a king on a throne, sat the man himself.</p><p>Chrollo was shorter than I imagined. He slicked his black hair to the back. Orbital aquamarine earrings almost melted with his earlobes into one. A crosshair pointer tattoo on his forehead which upon closer inspection turned out to be some other kind of cross. Black leather pants and a long, purplish cloak with feather-draped collar. No shirt underneath.</p><p>I recalled meeting a guy with feathers on his shoulders level. I was on the verge of collapsing back then. In fact, I blacked out shortly after. It was better to pretend I didn't connect the dots. I was done trading favours. Out of the sudden I felt tired. Thinking how to outsmart the smartest began hurting my brain. So much so, I didn't want to know why Chrollo dignified me with his attention to such lengths. I didn't want to know why he spied on me in person. Neither I cared why he bothered to drag me out of NGL. And why – of all places – had he chosen to abandon me on a bench in the Red Lights District's Lovers Park.</p><p>“Fancy meeting you here,” he quipped, voice calm, barely above a whisper. “Been keeping a close eye on you. It almost feels like I know you for years.”</p><p>I gave him a respectful nod. It was a habit of mine not to reply right off the bat. Silence tempted the talkative types to run their mouth. Chrollo sure turned out to be a talker:</p><p>“Speaking of eyes, I can understand now why Pariston is so obsessed with yours. A liquid darkness, he says. Can almost taste the soft texture on tongue, he says. Fluffier than marshmallow, he says. Oh, how he would love to poke them out and put them in a jar. Be careful around Hill, Illumi. He is more deranged than you give him credit for.”</p><p>“You and the Chief are colleagues?” I inquired.</p><p>Chrollo let out a quiet laugh. “Nothing could be further from the truth. I only happen to know things. And people. Better yet, I know what's on their minds.”</p><p>“Then you must know what's on mine.”</p><p>The Spider looked up the ceiling. Only then I noticed he was holding a book.</p><p>“You want to reunite with family. For that, you have to capture the Headsman. And to make <em>that </em>happen<em>,</em> you need my help. If someone asked me, I'd say, you've made the right choice. Kortopi is more than capable to see Hui Guo Rou is jailed for life”.</p><p>“Colour me impressed.” I clicked my tongue. “You've almost nailed it.”</p><p>The 'almost' part rubbed Chrollo up the wrong way. He squinted his eyes, and let out a little puff of air through his nose.</p><p>“Kortopi's talents may no longer do,” I clarified. “There has been… a sudden turn of events.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>“Two days ago, the prince blew up detective Kurta's cousin sky-high.”</p><p>“Oh.” Chrollo blinked at me. His mood lifted. “You managed to rile Tserriednich up so fast? I held his composure to a higher standard. What a disappointment.”</p><p>“Rou's nerves aside, Kurapika wants him dead. <em>I </em>need the Headsman exposed, tried, found guilty, and locked up. We have a conflict of interests, me and the detective. Are you still able to assist? Can you see a way out of this impasse?”</p><p>Silence lingered in the room for a while. Chrollo's grey eyes fixated on the floor. As if he was reading from it some secret instructions that only he could perceive and decipher. His distant stare reflected the lamp's single flame. I let the man consider his options, taking in the surrounding peace.</p><p>“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Chrollo spoke. “Tserriednich dies, but the Headsman gets arrested to make the affair closure possible. Is that what you want?”</p><p>“Precisely.”</p><p>“Not a problem.” Chrollo brushed his chin. “It can be done.”</p><p>I stood motionless. Either he could plan so far ahead, or he had endless means at his disposal.</p><p>“I assume you will take it upon yourselves to serve the prince justice,” Chrollo continued. “When the prince's body is cold, you'll need someone to put behind bars. I happen to know the right guy. He matches the portrait of a savage beast, the Headsman is pictured as. My people will only need to pump the story up a little.”</p><p>“Whom will you use?” I asked. “One of your Spiders?”</p><p>“For an operation like that I need to employ the most trustworthy, so yes. Uvogin knows no fear. His loyalty is immense. And let's be frank: not a single hair on his head will be in danger. You must have noticed, that I have people in all the right places.”</p><p>Oh, yeah. I could already envision the possible scenario. And it went like this: The fake Headsman gets detained and locked up on the ward where Feitan keeps scaring inmates shitless with his baton. The short guard stages a fatal beating of his Spider comrade. The Headsman is proclaimed dead. After all, inmates <em>did</em> die in Yorkshin penal institution. Shizuku prints an appropriate article in The Yorkshin Tribune. And backs it up with an appropriate photo to authenticate the story. Nobunaga airs a news-flash about the Headsman's 'unfortunate accident' on the radio. The Yorkshin folks are happy that the mass murderer got what he deserved. Uvogin gets transported to the morgue where Machi unzips his body bag, and lets him out. He re-joins the pack a bit shaken but unharmed. This or something along these lines.</p><p>“Of course,” – Chrollo added – “it will demand time. And cooperation. After all, we are attempting to fool the world here. A week should suffice to familiarize the public with the Headsman of our making. On your head lies dealing with Mizaistom and his men. You should also keep a close watch over the prince. I imagine Tserriednich won't take kindly to a copy-cat stealing his fame.” The word 'steal' tore a small smile from Chrollo's lips.</p><p>“Will do,” I said. “Let's talk about your price. I don't come empty-handed.”</p><p>“Let's,” he agreed. “What do you offer in exchange? Apart from the favour I didn't ask for. It has been duly noted, however. You have my thanks.”</p><p>“I carry information about wealth's abundance,” I started. “Can let you in on the location of Tserriednich's secret room. In it – a safe deposit box. A lot of riches inside. But around it – even more, if you cared to monetize the art he has stored in there.”</p><p>“Money and money in form of goods for sale. Not bad. And judging by whom it belongs to, I presume it's something of great value.”</p><p>“The best thing is, nobody will miss it,” I enticed. “Since few know about it. Kurapika among them. Then again, he won't object. He doesn't quite share the prince's taste in art.”</p><p>“You mentioned no names, I take it?”</p><p>“Rest assured; I keep my associates' identity undisclosed.”</p><p>“Then you've got yourself a deal, Illumi. Kurapika will have his vengeance. You will return home. I will keep Tserriednich's fortune. Everyone is happy.” And he clapped his hands.</p><p>“That's it? No haggle?”</p><p>“I'm not doing it only for coin. There are other benefits. For one – the Troupe doesn't like lying dormant for too long. And two – I want <em>you</em> to witness the true power I hold over Yorkshin. Next, I'd like you to share what you saw with your dear father.”</p><p>“A display of power?” I tipped my head to the side. “The Zoldycks don't need reminder about who holds the reins over Yorkshin.”</p><p>“Don't get me wrong. This is not a threat. Consider it an invitation. An enticement. I'd welcome Zoldyck in my ranks.”</p><p>In hopes of stealing our methods of operations – was my guess. We had tech, blueprints, insights, contacts. And the best school of making a perfect assassin. With thieves, it was always about what they could take from another. Be it material possessions, information; or skill. If my hunch didn't mislead me, he already had his mind set on recruiting Kalluto. Couldn't say I endorsed the idea.</p><p>“Back to the matter at hand,” Chrollo continued. “Can we trust Kurapika? By which I mean, how unhinged is he?”</p><p>“His priorities may have shifted, but he's put his act together,” I assured. “Don't worry about him.”</p><p>“We have an agreement then. If anything comes up that I should learn, speak to Shalnark or Machi. Oh, one more thing. Even though, you swept our identity under the rug, Kurta is no idiot. How high are the odds of him already suspecting the Troupe's involvement?”</p><p>I considered the question for a moment. “Until now, he didn't even care whom I struck the deal with. But if you move your pawns the way you intend, he'll guess immediately. There aren't many people in Yorkshin capable of pulling such a big hoax.”</p><p>“So, he will.” Chrollo bowed his head, as if he was praying.</p><p>“I assume your history with the Kurtas is nothing nice. Still, I'm confident he'll stomach it when he comes to the right conclusion. As things stand now, he'd team up with Tserriednich's dead grandma if she promised him the prince's head.”</p><p>“Let's observe how eager Kurapika is to get those hands bloody,” Chrollo whispered.</p><p>And we disbanded.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>I caught a second shadow on my way back. Couldn't see nor hear him; sniffed him in the air, though. I strolled downwind. The clear weather promised no rain. The sun was climbing up the blue skies. Puffy white clouds smiled at the Yorkshin citizens that gave them no mind. A couple of minutes passed and the breeze carried a chocolate aroma straight to my nostrils. It lingered and lingered, even when I took several sharp turns to shake my shadow off. Meanwhile, the police buildings manifested in the distance. The last thing I wanted were cops asking questions. I stopped. A couple of surprised pedestrians bumped onto me, apologized, and moved on.</p><p>“You can cease playing hide-and-seek,” I called, walked up to the nearest tenement house, and leaned my back against the wall. “I can smell you from a mile away.”</p><p>Kill emerged from the shadows of an alcove on the first floor of the building, above my head. He stepped with grace on the cornice and performed a downward somersault. I looked him up and down, then moved my eyes over his left arm. The broken limb rested in a cast on an arm sling.</p><p>“How did you break your arm?” was a question a caring big brother would ask first.</p><p>“Broke it sparring.”</p><p>I scrutinized him top to bottom yet again. Kill's gaze never flinched, his voice even, body posture lax. A perfect lie.</p><p>“Getting sloppy?” An act for an act. If I didn't know how he received the injury, I'd buy his tale. “This is what skipping training does to you.”</p><p>“Came here to talk with you, big bro.”</p><p>“Later.” I sighed. “Now is not a good moment.”</p><p>“You still wanna do this,” he kept stalling.</p><p>“I 'wanna' do what?”</p><p>“Race me to kill Gon. To drive your point home. You know, friendship and stuff.”</p><p>“Why does it matter? I cannot carry out any threats now. I have eyes on me 24/7.”</p><p>“I want to talk face-to-face,” he pressed. Look at him. He could be so to-the-point once he was hell-bent on achieving his goal. Quite like his big brother. “This is important, Illu-ni.”</p><p>A low blow. Killua knew I liked it when he referred to me the way he used to.</p><p>“Fine.” My back hunched a little. An urge to run away loomed over me. A strike of an irrational fear. Hisoka's 'party' must have made me a bit paranoid about my brother's safety. Kill was skipping his training for far too long. His self-preservation skills were rusty. He <em>did</em> let himself get kidnapped. We needed to get off that open space. Too many strangers around. Too many prying eyes. “Tomorrow, early in the morning,” I spoke hastily. “Do you know where I live?”</p><p>“Is the grass green?”</p><p>“Make your approach discreet. I'd rather nobody saw you.”</p><p>Kill snorted and gave me the look of narrowed, ocean blue eyes from under the fine eyebrows. I stood like a statue, pretending unaffected. Nice try, but I obtained a strong motivation not to give in. And we needed to move this conversation elsewhere; into a more secluded area.</p><p>“Does it look like I'm clumsy?” he asked.</p><p>“What an odd thing to say.” I eyed his arm sling. “It sort of does look like it.” I pulled myself down to Kill's level, and captured his chin in my fingers. Little brother stiffened. He sensed he could have ruined his deception with poor choice of words. Which he did. “Unless you're not telling me the truth about your broken arm.”</p><p>“Told you, I was sparring.”</p><p>Hmm… No point in pushing his buttons any further, unless I wanted some of my dirt to show. Kill was getting sharp, and I was still freaked out. Something else made me wonder. He seemed unaware of dead bodies scattered in front and inside the NGL police station. This told me there were hidden routes to and out of the base. I should inspect it up close some time. Plans for it already were forming in my head. But that was a matter for another day.</p><p>“See you tomorrow.” I waved him goodbye, and walked away as care-free as my own acting skill allowed.</p><p>I shoved my fists in my coat's pockets, and clinched them until it hurt. Dear goodness, how I wanted to hug him. I'd love nothing more than to hear him talk. At the same time, I wanted Kill to lie low until the Headsman investigation was closed. The yesterday's events flashed before my eyes. My self-control received a considerable boost. But the situation also gave me some sort of paranoia. It would gnaw on me unless Kill resumed his training. I had to witness him make life-saving decisions in the blink of an eye to calm my nerves.</p><p>I managed to cool off before I reached headquarters. Colt was chatting with Knuckle and Shoot in front of the main entrance. My guardian angel of fury had his left leg in a cast.</p><p>“So, chimera is off the streets, you say?” Knuckle asked Colt, greeting me with a single nod.</p><p>“Everything points to it.” Colt scratched one of the moles on his forehead. “The number of junkies decreases. The peddler either got chased away by the Mafia, or decided he milked locals for enough dough, and moved on.”</p><p>“Just like that?” Knuckle whistled. “Wouldn't it be swell, if cases always resolved themselves on their own?”</p><p>Yeah. Yorkshin had a unique way of lending coppers a hand. Ignorance is bliss. It was especially true in this city.</p><p>I entered the building, and went straight to Kurapika's office. A lot of planning ahead of us. It went without saying – between the two of us, it was me who was the most experienced in the business of taking lives. Kurapika proved fast to grasp that point, by doing the listening more than the talking. He attentively followed my words, analysing them as they went. I outlined Chrollo's general idea, and he raised no objections. Why should he? It was a decent plan. Yet, the way Kurta looked me over after I broke the news spoke more than a thousand words. He instantly realized who my partners in crime were, even if I left the names out. Still, he never showed his discontent. The detective stepped on my turf. He knew better than to argue with the specialist.</p><p>Polishing the details got us occupied until sunset.</p><p>First: We aimed to trick quite a lot of people. The investigation was about to take a sharp turn into uncharted territory. How many in the police force were familiar with who Kurapika's primary suspect was? Kurta brushed my worry away:</p><p>“Mizaistom is the only person who needs to know the full story. Besides, it is not like we'll be able to keep it from him. Leave convincing my superior to me. Once he and I tell the same tale, others will have no other choice than to believe their ears. This is how things work in hierarchically organized structures.”</p><p>Second: I had little to no control over how my associates would choose to carry on with their end of the bargain. Plainly speaking, we were in for many unforeseen events. Wild gossips, rumours about other victims, staged attacks. Shocking reports with no backing. Blurred photos of the culprit, surfacing here and there. All sorts of fake news necessary to prepare the public for the end of the Headsman's tyranny. It fell on us to support the show by playing out our roles so that not a single suspicious eyebrow is raised.</p><p>Third: Tserriednich himself. This point took us the longest, and remained incomplete for a while. We went through a considerable number of scenarios. One thing was clear. The staged capture ought to be conducted on the same date as our unfriendly visit to the prince. This was one more reason to let Mizaistom in on our plot. We needed someone to lead the ambush while we were… busy elsewhere. There remained the whole week to decide the exact time and the place. More, if necessary. I aimed to perch myself on the rooftops, and observe the gallery. Stalking a target has a special charm to it. You have a lot of free time to ponder your options. This is when creative ideas are often born.</p><p>And last but not least: after Hui Guo Rou dies, what to do with the body? I said, I could dump it in NGL, where no one would find it. Or make it look like kidnapping for ransom went bad.</p><p>“If only we weren't dealing with royalty,” Kurapika was thinking aloud. “As a rule of thumb, one should avoid complicating matters. If Tserriednich vanishes without a trace, we will have a foreign task force snooping around.”</p><p>“Right, then dwell on this: Since we plan to arrest the Headsman anyway, why not make the prince his last victim?” I suggested.</p><p>Kurapika eyeballed me with scrutiny, and I gave him my best passive expression.</p><p>“I'm well capable of replicating his method of brutalizing human remains,” I clarified. “I'll go through documentation once again. I'll collect proper tools and break the prince, much like he did his victims.” And maybe shove a little something down his throat. A parting gift of sorts, but not only that. The murderer did change his MO for us, and that was a fact. I should want to sustain the notion of continuity in said MO.</p><p>Our brainstorm concluded around 7 p.m. Kurapika portended talking to Mizaistom come the next morning. I told him rooftops would be my primary domain for the time being, so he should look for me up there if anything came up.</p><p>It was too late to set up the spyglass and make a cosy nest with a clear view of the art gallery. Yet, it was early enough to begin the study of Tserriednich's victims’ documentation. I scattered the photos on the floor, and compared them with Machi's and Kite's notes, one by one. I paid special attention to the tools used to inflict many a wound on a total of nine casualties. The list was long, and it went like this: Knives (many), hammer or another blunt weapon. Nails, bricks, drills, chisel, clippers, shears, rake, fork. Screwdriver, bone or wood saw, iron string (probably guitar). Rope, cloth gag, leather straps, axe or machete. Traces of wax next to burn marks, burn marks again (lighter or candle flame). Scalpels, shattered glass. A clover-shaped cookie mould? I dug out the corresponding picture. Indeed – the male victim's side was branded with a clover-shaped mark. The first time I saw it, I mistook it for a tattoo.</p><p>One thing to take from it – there existed not a tool the prince wouldn't use on his preys. My choice of means seemed endless. Problem lied elsewhere. He inflicted some injuries while victims were still alive. Hui Guo Rou had to be properly toyed with prior to Kurapika's final visit. I didn't know Kurta very well. Yet, what I did know so far told me the detective wasn't the one to drag unpleasantries forever. Especially not such a gory deed. He would show up and rip his head off. Simple as that. If I was to prepare the prince to look like his past kills, the head had to go. In one swing, no less. There was no going around that. If I could convince Kurapika to at least slap Rou around. If I couldn't… I trusted the rooftops inspiration would whisper the solution into my ear in due time. Here's to hope the detective's stomach was as strong as his hatred for the prince.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The next day, around 9 a.m. Kurapika stepped in my apartment. Mizaistom had been clued in. Although it was early, the detective looked like he could use some rest. The encounter with his superior must have been a heated one. The lieutenant still wanted to see the two of us later. I said 'fine', and went to the dissection room. Told Machi that Chrollo had a green light to act as agreed. And so had begun the operation to close the Headsman investigation.</p><p>I brought two vacuum flasks to the canteen and asked the staff to fill them up with my favourite coffee. In my room, I collected two pillows, and the box of classic Chocorobos. Only then, had I departed to the rooftop. The sky was overcast again, but the clouds weren't heavy with rain. A cool wind carried some moist on its wings. Other than that, the aura spelled a dry day.</p><p>Got myself busy finding the best angle to spy on Tserriednich's gallery. Its surroundings, its workers, both gorillas and regular staff. You never know when you'll learn something useful and from whom.</p><p>This time around, I neither heard him nor smelled him. I only realized he was there when he opened his mouth:</p><p>“Big bro.” Killua stood about six meters away.</p><p>He wore a neat, casual complete. A white tank top with black stripes, a simple white and blue chequered shirt, and matching straight trousers. Brand new, from the looks of it. The wind blew stronger up there. It played with his hair, ruffling that silver mane as it pleased. It would make any other kid appear boyish in a spoony fashion. Not Kill. At that moment, I was the proudest big brother there ever existed.</p><p>“Can we talk now?”</p><p>I tossed one pillow in his direction, and sat crossed-legged on another one; the chocolate box hidden behind my back.</p><p>“Sit,” I invited. “Talk.”</p><p>Kill walked up, and sat next to me. For a moment, one could hear only wind howling around us, and busy traffic below. I reached for the thermos and offered him coffee. He accepted the steaming cup with his functioning hand. His cockiness from yesterday dissipated. Kill looked older now. Maybe tired. Maybe resigned. Little brother tasted the blackness. He shuddered when the bitter warmth spread across his slim frame. Kill sighed, closed his eyes, and spoke:</p><p>“You know, it's funny, now that I think of it.”</p><p>I raised my brows. Kill made little sense. He often did. It took waiting patiently, until he was ready to speak his mind with coherent sentences. As if he needed a warm-up of sorts, and he sputtered nonsense in the result. Everyone has their means of testing the waters. I braced myself for another wave of sweet yet meaningless sounds.</p><p>“I mean, since they locked you up, I visited parents once a month. I wouldn't, if I haven't promised, but I did make the pact, so I had to stick to it, right? And now, that you are coming back, I may be considering it too. Funny, huh?”</p><p>“Kill,” I said softly. “I lived in the dark for half a year. You need to speak human to me. No riddles.”</p><p>“I'm saying… I'm…” Kill searched for adequate words; his gaze went down to the coffee cup. If I didn't know him better, I'd assume he was fighting back tears. “I'll return home. I'll work for family.”</p><p>Well, weren't I happy to hear that? It didn't show on my face in the slightest. But Kill knew. And then, I knew. There were conditions.</p><p>“Under a few conditions,” he added, his tone hard.</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“Gon comes with me.”</p><p>I cocked my head to the side and blinked. Kill took a deep breath, and then words rolled off his tongue like pearls from a torn necklace:</p><p>“I made this decision because of Gon, Illu-ni. Because I want to be his friend, and this is what friends do. I am ready to sacrifice my happiness for his sake. No, you hear me out!” He raised his voice, even though I did nothing to stop him from talking. “Gon was abandoned by his father. He never had a true family apart from aunt and grandma. Gon's father avoids him for some shady reasons. This made me realize...” Kill swallowed. “No, <em>Gon</em> made me realize, that at least my folks never abandoned me. And I should be glad. I have family Gon never had. Even if it is…” – he muffled some adjective – “a family like ours.”</p><p>“Your colleague is not a part of it, though.”</p><p>“Not for you. But our butlers are a different story. I want him to join our household staff. They'll be like family for him. Harsh, yeah, but supportive. He'll train to serve the Zoldycks, and to get strong, so that one day he can meet Ging. I mean, his father. Furthermore, he <em>will</em> remain my friend.”</p><p>“Is that your only condition?” I asked.</p><p>“No,” he replied. Of course, it wasn't. I sensed what was coming up next. “Gon is already very capable, believe it or not. He has some natural talent. He'll do fine on Kukuroo Mountain. I'm much aware, that the only danger he'll face there, is you.”</p><p>Kill looked me hard in the eye, and I looked at him fondly. We communicated without words sometimes. I acknowledged that fear. He wasn't mistaken after all. It was a fact – Gon stood in the way, even if he proved useful for the time being. The boy was much like the arm sling that helped Kill carry his injured limb. Of use now; to be discarded later.</p><p>“Promise me you won't try to harm him,” Kill demanded, almost begged.</p><p>I considered his pleas in silence, took a sip of coffee, and let out a sigh. “Fine. If that will stop you from further attempts to run away. Give me your word, that you will immediately resume your training.”</p><p>“Deal. You won't play Gon to test me?”</p><p>“If he behaves.”</p><p>I couldn't simply agree. For one, it would be dishonest, and set Kill's alarm bells right off. I wasn't the best liar. Playing a role to get to my target was one thing, but my family demanded frankness of me. True, I'd rather see that boy put down. This could wait, however, until Kill developed a more Zoldycklike mindset. The ultimate test – Kill taking Gon's life himself. An event worth waiting years to realize.</p><p>Killua bit his thumb and raised it. A single red droplet grew larger and larger.</p><p>“Big bro,” he announced, tone grim. “Blood pact. You don't raise your hand against Gon. In return, I'll go back to assassination. If you break your promise, I'll escape and take Alluka with. I'll burn our mansion to the ground together with your favourite garden. You'll never see me again. If I break the promise, you can hunt me down and lock me up in the basement. You can test new substances on me, brainwash and torture me, and mould me until you're satisfied.”</p><p>“You must think me a monster.” I shook my head, but bit my thumb regardless and pressed it against his. Such a childish game. But he would grow out of this.</p><p>I could have imagined it, but Kill's expression became softer. For a heartbeat, he reminded me when he was 4-years-old. A child, trusting that his older brother would be there for him forever.</p><p>“Oh.” I gasped. “Almost forgot. I brought something for you.” I reached behind me, and lifted the box of Chocorobos I bought in the Cookie Cutter.</p><p>Kill opened it immediately, even if he had only one hand available, and peaked inside. I could tell he loved what he saw. His big blue eyes sparkled.</p><p>“The originals!” he exclaimed and grinned.</p><p>Kill was growing fast, but the little boy still lived inside him. I let a small smile stretch my lips. It should be me who would rip that little boy out of him. Only I was capable of doing it with enough tenderness.</p><p>“I thought they stopped making them like, ages ago,” his squealed in his enthusiasm. “Where have you found it?”</p><p>“That's confidential. Don't eat all at once.” I motioned for him to go.</p><p>Kill stood up, but remained in his spot. His brilliant smile melted away; the pale face overshadowed. He whimpered: “I'm sorry.”</p><p>I blinked at him, dumbfounded. “For what?”</p><p>“For getting you jailed.”</p><p>“I got arrested because I was reckless. There is no fault of yours in that.”</p><p>“Stop it, you big goof. If I didn't run, you wouldn't screw up that contract.”</p><p>“The target went down,” I reminded him. “So, technically, the job was met with a proper outcome.”</p><p>“Man, you can be dense. I feel guilty, and what will you do about it?!” he screamed at me. Why was he so strange out of the sudden?</p><p>“You'll change your mind when we resume your endurance sessions,” I consoled. “Go now. Don't show your face near here until you hear from me. Where have you stopped?” I asked that, even though I knew. Unlike Kill's, my act had to be spotless. I felt a prod of panicky thoughts again.</p><p>“Hotel Rafflesia,” he answered with a hollow undertone. And he was still standing there, like he grew roots. What was wrong with him?</p><p>“Kill,” I urged, my voice as tranquil as always, despite fear creeping in. “Go. Now.”</p><p>He took a shaky step towards me, then retracted. Then moved forward, then back again, as if there were some magnetism between his foot and the ground. Kill seemed uncertain. I recalled how easily Hisoka took him hostage. Paranoia knocked on my mind's door again. It poured acid into my veins, put ideas into my head. Visions of inquisitive eyes spying on us right that moment. Lean fingers making notes of our close relation, scheming how to abuse it. I couldn't stand it. My focus should be on the job. Yet, Kill's safety would always be my top priority. I grabbed him by the arms, and shook him delicately, mindful of his injury. And then I saw Kill's eyes leaking. I wasn't very good with emotions.</p><p>“Kill, what is happening?” I asked, and one second later he was hugging me like I could turn into dust any moment.</p><p>“You're dumb,” he said, squeezed me tighter, and sniffled.</p><p>Maybe I was, but I knew my little brother. We had several moments like that before. It was always about Kill wanting something said, or expecting a particular reaction to what he had done. I replayed our conversation in my head, looking for a hint. <em>I feel</em> <em>guilty, and what will you do about it? –</em> seemed to be the key.</p><p>“Already told you, I don't blame you,” I soothed, moving my hand up and down his shaking back.</p><p>But Kill kept clinging. Emotional breakdown. It became clear to me; he had a long way before him. The role of a big brother, of a mentor, never ends. They say I took a lot after mother. But sometimes I think Kill has her tendency to over-emotional outbursts. The worst part – I had a hard time understanding where it was coming from. Near always it was a guesswork on my part. How quaint that I excelled at guessing. To Kill's defence, he was still learning. There was not a flaw I couldn't forgive him. All his mishaps will get corrected with enough practice. Oh, right. That must have been it.</p><p>“I forgive you, Kill. Is that what you want to hear?”</p><p>He unglued himself from me, a long snot dangling from his nose. Kill managed a coy smile. Bingo. Still, I had no idea what triggered it.</p><p>“I'm not perfect, you know?” Kill sobbed. “I make mistakes.” If explanation to his wild behaviour lurked in that confession, it was lost on me.</p><p>“I know,” I replied regardless. “This is what our lessons are designed for.” Because you <em>are</em> perfect, even if you don't believe it right now, Kill. One day, we'll make you shine.</p><p>Killua sighed and shook his head. He swiped tears off his cheeks with his good forearm. Chocolates rattled in the box.</p><p>“Stay put in the hotel until I call you, okay?” I asked, and he nodded. “Then we will go home. You and me. And the boy.”</p><p>“He has a name, you irredeemable crackpot.” Kill said that, but he suppressed a shy laughter. Shedding tears can be exhausting, and he sounded drained. Confused, too.</p><p>I smiled back at him. “Of course, he has.” And kissed him on the forehead, right below the line of his wild hair. “Disappear now. Don't get yourself in trouble unless I'm there to supervise it.”</p><p>Kill finally moved. He reached the trash chute and slid down, vanishing from my sight like a dream. I closed my eyes to check with myself how I performed. A small self-assessment. Could I still say, I never laid my hands inappropriately on him? Yeah. Could I say, I didn't want to? Sort of. And why? Only fear stopped me. I'd sooner die than let the situation from the abandoned police station re-play. All things considered; the outcome was the same. If you were like me, only the end result counted.</p><p>A few hours later, Kurapika summoned me for a briefing with Mizaistom. Only it wasn't a briefing. It was Mizai needing to blow off some steam. The lieutenant voiced his worries and discontent. He paced the office to and fro, gesticulating vigorously towards the walls. Although he was addressing us, it felt as if he was raging just to be raging. We only provided a much desired audience. And so, he complained and complained, and we nodded and nodded, letting the man unwind. He asked me countless times if I hadn't had any better ideas. Then he shifted focus to Kurapika, asking if he knew what the hell he was doing. I kept telling him, it was the best we've got. Kurapika kept replying that he knew damn well what he was doing. When Mizaistom grew tired of rising his voice, he masticated his forever-there straw. Double the speed. I watched it move. It hypnotized me. The lieutenant's jaw worked tirelessly. The straw jumped up and down, slid to the sides, clouding my mind. My hand moved on its own towards one of my needles. I snapped out of it in time, otherwise I'd be chewing on iron, following Mizaistom's example. In the end, he made a stop in front of his desk. The man shielded his brows with his opened palm. I couldn't see the blackened eye; only the tip of that faithful straw. It was still writhing, trapped between those restless lips.</p><p>“This is madness,” he concluded. “What's worse, this is madness I am allowing to happen. I can't believe it. You” – the lieutenant pointed his finger at me – “tainted him. And you” – his accusatory finger moved towards Kurta – “You're grieving. You've lost your mind.”</p><p>“Leorio begs to differ,” Kurapika disagreed, face dutiful. “He is forcing me to run mental checks twice a day. He deems me suitable for service.” Then his voice lost its official drab. The next time he spoke, it sounded like a friend confiding to a friend: “It is the only way, Mizaistom. I'm not crazy. I'm weary. This investigation has dragged for far too long. We can't allow any more deaths. I'm putting an end to Tserriednich's frenzy. It's my call. Things go south, pin it on me.”</p><p>“I put my trust in you, detective,” Mizaistom rebuked. “And I still count on you. Don't make me regret it.”</p><p>The blond tipped his head. His scarlet eyes told me it was time to go. I couldn't be happier to oblige.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Chrollo didn't waste time. Soon, the whole Yorkshin was shocked to learn the elusive serial killer began making himself more visible. Wherever you turned, there was the Headsman. Concerned individuals called various radio stations to report they had seen the murderer. A big guy, strong like a bear. A brute, wearing animal skins rather than a decent garment. “He was terrifying!” a horror-struck female listener confessed on the Yorkshin Waves. “He wanted to snap my neck, but I ran. So, he snapped my brave doggie's,” she sniffled, and burst into melodramatic tears. In newspapers headlines screamed: 'The Headsman sighted!' A smudged brown photo of a hunched broad back to strike fear in many hearts. I could even hear mentions of him on late night TV. The machine started rolling. It didn't take long, when independent cogs and wheels put themselves into motion to support the greatest lie ever.</p><p>Two days passed, and kids on the streets were chasing each other, playing 'the Headsman and his preys.' 'Have you seen this man?' – notes started appearing. On lampposts, information boards, bus stops, and in papers' small announcements section. Everywhere. Below the text a much clearer picture of an imposing man. Yet the quality still left much to be desired. Someone emblazoned the building of Yorkshin general post office, with huge graffiti. It depicted the Headsman with a head on a leash. A pretty intricate delineation. A mane of light-brown hair, noticeable sideburns, thick brows, square jaw, menacing grin. Tall and muscular body. And hands with vice-like grip. Uvogin looked nothing like Tserriednich. Still, he fit the image of a serial killer who revelled in beheading the beautiful and beating their remains to a pulp.</p><p>I and Kurapika drove the city to speak with witnesses wherever they happened to appear. Some of them believed they narrowly escaped death. Kurapika asked questions, I made notes. We checked the places where the killer reportedly appeared, dragging discontent Kite along. Phones rang in headquarters day and night. Since Knuckle couldn't move much due to the shot in the leg, Kurta assigned him the task of picking up the receiver. The police mailbox got flooded with denunciations from terrified citizens who came into close encounter with the Headsman and survived to talk about it.</p><p>When I wasn't busy playing my part, I either circled the gallery building on foot, or watched it from the rooftop. I'd sleep better if we settled for the place to introduce Tserriednich to his demise. The solution came on the third day of observation. Apparently, the best option was so obvious it eluded me, even if I spent hours gawking at it.</p><p>Late in the afternoon, I noticed the prince and his two goons talk in front of the building. They walked outside my spyglass range. I had to grab binoculars and approach the rooftop's verge to keep them in sight. I tried to focus on their lips, yet couldn't make much of it. One guy spoke with an accent; utterly unreadable. The other one had his back turned on me. I had a clear view of Tserriednich's face, but he was turning his head left and right, speaking fast. Too fast. Boy, wasn't he pissed. All I got was 'damned' and 'get' and 'I don't care!' Then the prince pointed up. Then he shouted some more, a word 'hide' dropped, and he pointed up again. His body language tried to tell me something. I was pretty sure; he didn't realize what his pointing finger was doing. Something 'up there' was on his mind as he commented his copy-cat's recent endeavours. It was only natural Hui Guo Rou wanted to get him. And subject him to the real deal's treatment perhaps. Then he pointed up again.</p><p>So, I looked up. A small rotunda crowned the gallery. The prince referred to this place as his sanctuary, if I recalled. Tserriednich was a classy man – or thought himself to be. A man of art, an affectionate soul. Had he considered himself an artist, it would be sensible to think, he prepared his 'pieces of art' where his Muse dwelt. And then, there was this curious thing about pointing up while talking of hiding. Usually, when you consider hiding stuff, you think about placing it deep underground, where nobody can see it. But the prince was original, wasn't he? Eccentric, one of a kind, and as such, he set up his hiding place 'up there'. The mad artist's sanctuary. What would I find there, if I infiltrated the top of his building?</p><p>When I looked back down, the sight of two stilettos of blue irises aimed at my skull greeted me. I didn't flinch a muscle, standing like a monument, only strong wind messing with my hair. It was probably what gave me away. From his perspective, I was but a tiny, tiny shadow of a silhouette installed atop a remote building, far away. Yet, there we were. I watched him, and he watched me. A good half a minute passed, before Tserriednich mouthed something that escaped me. He raised his hand and offered me an outlook of his middle finger. On reflection, even a bum had more manners. Next, he spun on his heel and stormed back to the gallery, his fancy cape fluttering behind him.</p><p>You don't flip an assassin off. You never know when you give one an idea. I found his little gesture enlightening. Just as I hoped. Observation of a target and creative thoughts often go hand-in-hand.</p><p>I watched the rotunda till 3 a.m. It piqued my interest, it honestly did. The lights flicked on in there around midnight, and remained lit for an hour. Already made my mind to infiltrate the place the next day. Kurapika had to forgive me skipping a few scheduled interrogations. My guardian angel of sorrow would fill the void my short absence created.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Every day a technical worker of some sorts would show up to check on the gallery's interior. Many things to tend to in there. Electricity circuits, fuses, power generators, landlines, lighting, heating, plumbing, insulation, repairs, etcetera. 10 a.m. sharp I set out to create minor damage to the gallery's corridors. I spotted an opened window two floors down, counting from the top. It took climbing on the roof of the nearest building facing the spot, and loading my pin-gun with pebbles. Two shots – and two lamps on the sides of an elevator got killed. Soon, the technician would be required to assess the damage and prepare replacement.</p><p>Gallery workers had a rather vast parking lot in the rear of the building. A few large dumpsters stood there, too. It also seemed to be a temporary holding place for bigger equipment awaiting removal. Few people around. Crouched behind an out-of-service washing machine, I waited for the technician's van. The machine hugged a cracked wooden closet. You couldn't ask for a better hiding spot. The van arrived. I got inside before the specialist had a chance to step out. After knocking him cold, I covered his mouth with duct tape, and bound his hands, just in case. I took his worker coverall, a cap, his pass, and a tool case.</p><p>The janitor instructed me which elevator to take, and which floor to stop on – it was the 11th floor. All that time two armed guards surveyed me intently. I put on a worried and nervous face to make them feel better about themselves. I summoned the elevator and waited. Before I could step inside, one of the gorillas checked me out for weapons – I didn't have any on me. Left my pin-gun behind the dumpster, together with my coat and fedora. I arrived wearing only a stolen coverall, and the tool kit. Plus, a small UV flashlight and spray to help reveal bloodstains and other physiological fluids. If my gut feeling was correct, I expected to find a lot of it near the rotunda.</p><p>The gallery opened for visitors occupied max three floors. Who knew what Tserriednich needed the rest of the rooms for. Not even occasional royal family reunions demanded that much space. The higher the floor, the emptier it became. The elevator stopped at the 11th floor, the door slid open and closed, and up we went, one more level. It was better to get to the top on foot, in case it was guarded. As it turned out, it wasn't.</p><p>It took 5 minutes to jog around the rotunda. Not a soul in there. Red carpet below my feet, high ceiling above my head. Window glass to my one side, and smooth wall painted white to the other. No doors. The overwhelming smell of antiseptic. The space felt smaller than it was, claustrophobic. Sounds came muffled. Acoustic insulation. This level was lit for an hour the night before. Another hidden entrance somewhere there. I sprayed the wall and the carpet with special chem, and flashed some UV rays on it. And soon enough, it revealed the first blotches of fluids. Saliva, sweat and urine emitted a luminescent glow once sprayed and touched with blue light. Blood didn't glow, but it showed as a darker splash on the surface. Much to my surprise, the walls weren't very stained. The splatter cumulated on the floor. I stepped on the carpet there, knelt and palpated the area. A thin line where fabric's ends connected. The carpet covered a trap door with a lock. The lock looked complicated, yet the entrance seemed fragile enough to force it.</p><p>My thoughts battled for a while, whether to leave it or break inside. Curiosity killed the cat – I reminded myself and left it be. For now. The entrance led to the room behind the wall, where the Headsman prepared his victims for a display. At that point, I was much convinced of that. A perfect place to give Tserriednich a taste of his own medicine. Surely Kurapika would agree.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>By the end of the week, the tension in the city near materialized. Every individual lived and breathed the Headsman. Uvogin's face was everywhere. Tserriednich seemed at the brink of losing his sanity. He felt the noose tightening, yet he couldn't place the reasons. He didn't see the whole picture. How the Phantom Troupe played it out, it appeared as if some complete moron woke up one morning, and decided to take the blame and fame for kills off his shoulders. Hui Guo Rou must have felt, like he was walking on thin ice in the dead of night, surrounded by wolves.</p><p>Afternoon Mizaistom led the police squad where the Headsman had been sighted. Kurapika and I accompanied him only to show our faces there. Next, we retracted back to headquarters, leaving the rest of the ambush to the lieutenant. It ought to last for over three hours. Reporters and journalist had been tipped off beforehand. All eyes were on the show.</p><p>In Kurapika's office, I readied my bones breaking tool case and spit-shined my two pin-guns. The detective couldn't decide whether to take his chain or not.</p><p>“Out of all the torture tools he tried, chains weren't among them,” I noted. “Which means nothing. The list is so long, adding to it won't do any harm.”</p><p>The chain rattled, as he passed it to me. I took it and crammed it into my heavy case.</p><p>“It is awfully silent,” Kurapika said.</p><p>I raised a questioning brow.</p><p>“In my head,” he clarified in a voice of a dreaming man. “I expected cacophony of angry sounds, turmoil, clamour, screams.” He shook his head; the blond hair danced on the sides of his pale face. “Not the silence. It's almost tranquil.”</p><p>I eyed him briefly. He looked sharp. Focused, despite the little puzzlement.</p><p>“You are confusing a cold-blooded murder with a crime of passion, detective.” I holstered my pin-guns, and stroke them fondly. I took them, even though I was barred from using them for as long as I was considered a convicted man. “The harbinger of death is only loud to the killer's ears when it is triggered by untamed emotion. When it is deliberate and planned for days, it comes quietly.”</p><p>“I used to equate silence with dignifying qualities.” Kurapika's head hung around his neck as if it was about to drop to the floor at any moment. “It doesn't seem right to dignify Tserriednich in any way.”</p><p>“His atonement has already begun,” I reminded him. “Told you, my helping hand is good at cracking the hardest shells.”</p><p>Before the ambush started, me and Feitan made sure the prince would be awaiting Kurapika in his secret room atop the gallery. All nicely tied up with ropes and gagged. Kurta understood that my part of the work required at least a handful of wounds delivered to the body before it breathed its last. The details. They mattered, even if they were my downfall in the past. The short Spider was the best candidate to mutilate the prince right like I needed. If Feitan managed to stifle his love for torture, he should have left the rotunda 20 minutes ago. It was Kurapika's turn.</p><p>“Are we good to go?” I asked.</p><p>Kurapika led the way without speaking. We moved past the forensics lab. I had a glance at the Crazy Sloths. I thought I saw their teeth. They grinned; I kid you not. Those conniving little devils. They flashed their too sharp fangs in a crooked smile, like it was a pay day on Friday in hell. Unless it was the most amazing trick of light I have ever seen.</p><p>We entered the gallery from the front, dressed like gentlemen, looking business like. I bought a black suit and a red tie for that occasion. Kurapika flashed his badge, but nobody bothered us. Everyone worried their eyes and ears following live reports from the manhunt after the serial killer. The gallery's halls and corridors carried many voices coming from TV or radio sets, relating Mizaistom's progress. Even traffic outside lessened. At one point, it seemed to stop completely. The whole Yorkshin held its breath. People paid attention to nothing but the ambushed murderer, who terrorized them for months.</p><p>Tserriednich's gorillas that usually guarded the elevator disappeared. When I sneaked inside earlier with Feitan, I insisted on stealth. We managed to reach the prince, leaving only two bodies in our wake. I never told him not to kill anyone on his way out, though. My bad.</p><p>On the 13th floor I used a copy of the key to open the trap door. Kurapika climbed down; no hesitation. I loitered behind, making sure we wouldn't lure unwanted attention.</p><p>At first glance the oval room made a sterile impression. Clean as baby's skin. And all pure white. The only item disturbing the inside's simplicity was a painting hanging high on the wall to our right. A solitary man screaming his disfigured face off on a bridge, having sunset in the background. Apart from that, it was only a rotunda, predominantly devoid of furniture. It took spraying chemicals and blue light to see through deception. The walls and the wooden floor treasured the memory of every fluid that could be beaten out of the human crust. The reminders of gallons of shed blood turned the white paint dark-blue under the right light. The latest victim's life-force was still screaming in luminescent blotches around a small pedestal in the centre of the room. Kurapika didn't need to see that, though. The place gave off a repellent vibe. You could sense that something was off simply by standing in there; and wondering what was up with the sounds. They resonated under the skin rather than in eardrums. As if they soaked into the room's very construction, much like the spilled blood. The silence. It was familiar to me, and Kurapika only befriended it that day. But he recognized it all right. The tranquillity of premeditated murderous intent.</p><p>Feitan left the room much like I requested him to. The curtains and blinds drawn. The single lamp stood tall to the back, shining the brightness on the opposite wall. I sprawled black oilcloth on the pedestal. I planned to prepare Tserriednich on it later on. The man himself sat on the chair next to it, naked, bound, and gagged. A pink collar with green hearts pattern on his neck. He was already broken. It was Feitan's precision, so even though some injuries looked fatal, the prince still drew shallow, raspy breaths. The Spider peeled skin off Rou's side. One rib protruded nastily, peeking outside. The most important part was, that the man lived. Barely. Yet, he was conscious enough to receive Kurapika's farewell.</p><p>The detective came up to the Headsman. The scarlet eyes were wrathful, even if Kurapika kept cool composure.</p><p>“Remember to–”</p><p>“I know,” Kurta cut me off, yanking the chain out of my hand. “I won't hit the head.”</p><p>He spat at the face, though.</p><p>“It wouldn't have come to this if you haven't deprived me of the only reason that kept me alive,” Kurapika said, piercing Tserriednich with his reddened stare. The chain agreed, rattling.</p><p>The prince was too weak to reply. From his bloodied and bashed form, I could tell he wanted to get this over with. He lacked strength and means to express that desire, but I could see.</p><p>“I came to talk to you like a dead man to a dead man, prince. You've killed the only family I had. You robbed me of saying him a proper goodbye.” The next part escaped from Kurapika's throat in a shrill yell: “I don't even have ashes to remember him by! Not a single” – the chain connected with Tserriednich's flesh– “memento!”</p><p>And from there, it flew left and right, up and down. On Kurapika's part, the work was silent. The prince? Well, Feitan left him half dead already. In different circumstances, he'd be screaming his lungs out.</p><p>I turned my back away from the sight. Didn't want to intrude on Kurapika's moment with his cousin's murderer. What I faced, was a wide white wall. Two sharp shadows moved on it like actors on a unique stage – one barely moving, one struggling. Thus, I observed them instead. Judging by the painting of a horrified man shouting above, ghastly things were occurring there, indeed.</p><p>It was also then, when I finally did it. One of my needles ended up in my mouth. I must have picked it up from the lieutenant, or Leorio. Or Morel. To have something to chew on seemed like a thing many guys working for the police did. So, I had a try. I moved the pin around. It clicked against my teeth, the sharp end pricked my tongue. Paralysis spread to the side of the muscle. I lacked experience; you see. It didn't last for long, though. I kind of liked the general idea. There was something calming in munching on an object. It forces you to remain focused on controlling the movements. I was taking my new habit in, watching the shadowy figures playing their gruesome spectacle on the wall.</p><p>The shorter shadow was flinging its fists, and its chain, as if it were a hard toil rather than a brutal payback. With each hit, the bound one's torso twitched. He writhed and groaned in pain, and howled through the gag. Good paint, and good light. You could even see the splatters of blood departing, flying in a graceful arch, to vanish on the floor. And finally, the shorter splotch of blackness moved its head. If shadows had eyes, they would be on me:</p><p>“Machete,” Kurapika demanded and took heavy inhale.</p><p>I knelt, opened my tool case, and rummaged inside for the blade. Some stuff fell out, star and tear-shaped cookie moulds among them. I found the machete and handed it over.</p><p>“Better hope hell doesn't exist, prince,” the smaller shadow spoke, squeezing the handle with both hands. “Because if it does, I will find you there.”</p><p>One swing. A wet sound. The cervical vertebrae gave in. The disfigured man on the painting kept screaming, even if it was all over.</p><p>The Headsman ended up beheaded. You truly reap what you sow. The blond's black negative on the wall held the head by the hair. Blood was still dripping, as he raised it to his eyes' level. There was nothing triumphant about it; nothing elegant. It was a reminder that if you choose to fight monsters, you might end up becoming one. The times change, and standards of civilized society may improve. But the foundation is what it is. It calls from places desensitized to violence after harvesting enough experience. It rears its primal head when the rules, and the laws, and the courts, and all the wise men prove unable to spell justice satisfactory for us. Only power can settle some scores. This wretched city knows it damn too well. Sometimes only might makes right.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Sense x No x Evil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>'Notorious Headsman arrested!' –</em> <b>Pariston</b> <b>Hill, Chief of Yorkshin</b> <b>Police, informed last evening.</b>  </p><p><b>Shocking news! Prince Tserriednich of Kakin royal family the last Headsman's victim.</b>  </p><p>
  <b>Shocking find! Autopsy reveals Rou's hand inside his throat. Middle finger extended. </b>
</p><p><b>Headsman admits </b> <em> 'I regret nothing. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Damn, he's ugly,” Knuckle commented Uvogin's face. He passed the newspaper over to Shoot, who then passed it over to me, without sparing it a glance. My guardian angel’s sorrowful eyes were focused on an empty platform in front of us.</p><p>I found the article about the autopsy. The short note described the horrible state the body was found in. 'Much like his other preys' – the note assured. A black-and-white grainy photo of Machi holding a blurred-out hand. The one I shoved down Tserriednich's throat. Middle finger extended.  </p><p>“Don't you feel like you went overboard with it?” Machi murmured, leaning over.  </p><p>“It corresponded with recent change in his Modus Operandi,” I replied.  </p><p>“Are you quite sure it had nothing to do with a dick inside your lookalike's mouth?” she sneered. </p><p>“Quite.”</p><p>The crowd grew larger with each passing minute. The press conference was scheduled at 10 a.m., in front of the Yorkshin Police main station, under the open sky. One could tell it were the last summer days. Heavy clouds and chilling wind whispered autumn. It would soon be a parade of long grey weeks drenched in cold rain.</p><p>The police Chief was late. The rest of Mizaistom's crew managed to gather before Hill made an appearance. Most of them weren't too happy about it. Kurapika, Morel, Leorio, Kite and Colt joined us in the back, away from fervent scribblers. The lieutenant stood closer to the platform, together with other high-ranking officials.<br/> </p><p>“Must I be here?” Kite grunted. “Last time I saw Hill live, I almost lost sight in my left eye.”<br/> </p><p>“Watch him take half the credit where he doesn't deserve even a quarter of it.” Leorio snorted, correcting his shades. The unlit smoke twitched angrily in the corner of his mouth when he slurred: “And they expect me to clap for him. After my dead body. Sleazy bastard.” </p><p>“Shouldn't you be up there, with Mizai?” Morel asked Kurapika. </p><p>“I belong <em>here</em>.” The detective rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He didn't sleep well. No wonder. “If it were up to me, I'd rather not be here at all.” </p><p>“Whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right?” Leorio raised a reassuring thumb up.</p><p>Despite Pariston taking his time, flashes of cameras were constantly blinking. Excited voices buzzed. They soon fused into that unique whispered yell; the one only a large concentration of individuals is capable of manufacturing. Camera-men fought for the best spots. Some talking heads were already speaking into the microphones. Bystanders were pushing through with their elbows for a clearer view. Journalists shot photo after photo, focusing on front rows. </p><p>The word 'Hill' danced on many lips, spoken in every type of intonation. Exclamations, questions, statements bordering certainty… 'I heard he does money-laundering on the side.' 'No, he would never! Embittered Nostrade is spreading gossip again.' The Chief had die-hard supporters. They loved him oh-so-much that they turned a blind eye to his shifty ventures. Explained it with bad intentions of others. A handsome face does it. If only people weren't so fast to overlook the ugly deeds of the pretty. You want to sell folks shit? Wrap it in a glittering foil and ask a model to promote it. Look no further than Hill. Selling bullshit every day; still a chief of law enforcement in Yorkshin. </p><p>A beast of a woman was pushing through the crowd towards Mizaistom's general direction. Biscuit Krueger seemed vexed to say the least. Ready to shake some sense into the man while there still lingered a small possibility of success. She was in for a disappointment. Thank goodness for small flaws in human character. Mizaistom would never break his word. The deal was sealed the moment they got the Headsman cuffed. At that point, any Headsman would do for far too many influential people. If there were any doubters, they seemed satisfied enough not to open their pie holes. Not much Krueger could do about it other than show the man how displeased she was. Which she did</p><p>And the blond 'saint' descended upon the platform, exposing his teeth in his trademark grin. Once again, I wondered how his face didn't break in half. I somehow always expected it, witnessing him smile. Hill waved to the gathered, watching enthusiastic faces with his wheedling eyes. </p><p>“Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear, lovely people.” The Chief corrected his tie and beamed, drawing a frantic reaction from onlookers. </p><p>“I'm going to vomit my chips,” Knuckle grumbled. </p><p>“You and me both,” Colt agreed. </p><p>And so, the press conference started. First off, Pariston made an official announcement about the Headsman's arrest. He briefed the audience about the conducted ambush. He gave the time and the date of capture, hinted what will happen with the killer next. Then he congratulated Mizaistom and his men.</p><p>“The citizens of our city can feel safe again,” he stated, overjoyed. </p><p>“Only Hill can spit out such nonsense and feel no remorse.” Morel shook his head, releasing a puff of white smoke into the sky.  </p><p>We listened on. To how the Chief put the citizen's safety above all else. To how serious he was about his mission. How law enforcement – under his brilliant leadership – would never rest. How <em>he </em>would be fighting crime to see criminals punished for their trespasses. Next came the Q&amp;A part, and sure enough, journalists jumped at Hill with a slew of questions. First about the Headsman, but then about the Chief himself, his plans for the future yadda yadda yadda. Each Hill's petty attempt at being funny rewarded with wave of unflagging brouhaha. </p><p>When the major announcement had been conveyed, the crew started to melt away, person by person. Kite led the way. Soon, it was only me and Kurapika. Mizaistom's orders. We were bound to stay till the end. The Chief wanted to congratulate us in person, you see; unbeknownst to reporters. This is how open and loving he was. An hour and a half later, Mizaistom summoned us closer. We followed him to the backstage. </p><p>“Prosecutor Krueger made it clear, she won't stop blocking your bail-out,” Mizai told me. “She even raised the bail from 100 billion to the outrageous amount of 4 trillion Jenny.” </p><p>“Not even Kakin could waste such money to buy one prisoner out,” a joy-sipping voice sounded behind us. I blinked, preparing my eyes for a blinding flash of whiteness. “You sure were one precious convict.” </p><p>“Chief Hill,” Kurapika sold him a stiff nod. </p><p>“Ah, detective Kurta!” Hill grabbed Kurapika's hand and shook it, so violently one would think he aimed to rip it off of the man. “Let me congratulate you on capturing this dangerous degenerate, detective. It is not your first exceptional exploit, I hear. It's a privilege for the police force to have such a talent on board. I wish you further successes seeing Yorkshin streets rid of criminal element.” </p><p>“There is one thing I wish to discuss with the detective,” Mizaistom said, when Pariston was done flashing his teeth at Scarlet Eyes. </p><p>“Of course,” the Chief complied and moved his happy gaze over me. “Let's have a word ourselves, shall we?”</p><p>We moved a few paces away, where nobody stood but lightning equipment and tool boxes. </p><p>“Bisky is such a tease. Sturdy and obstinate,” Hill chirped. He reached to his pants pocket and fished out a lollipop. The wrapping rustled when he released the candy. “Had to use my ties to governor Netero to grant you pardon. Which was easy, once you proved your serviceableness. But, boy, did he ask <em>questions</em>.” </p><p>“When am I allowed to fly back home?” I inquired. </p><p>“When paper work is over. It shouldn't take more than a day. Tomorrow, you are a free man, Illumi.” </p><p>“Thank you. You kept your word.” </p><p>“You know I have a stake in this.” Hill popped the lollipop into his mouth. His sparkling gaze scrutinized me. </p><p>I did not forget our conversation in the prison's isolation room. He asked me to 'get him someone.' Yet, since then, I grew extra braincells. </p><p>“About that, I politely decline.” I decided to heed Chrollo's warning. It's not every day that a thief offers something for free, even if it is advice. </p><p>Hill's smile faltered; the lollipop's stick went down. “Why the change of heart?” </p><p>“Working with the police had a beneficial impact on me. I should stick to what I do best. You want them found, hire a private eye. You want them <em>killed</em>; I am your man.”</p><p>To that he beamed again. “So, you remain my favourite hit-man, after all. I can settle for that. As a matter of fact, there is one nosy journalist that is lately getting on my nerves. You may expect a contract from me soon.” And he slurped his lollipop, devouring my eyes with his. I withstood this stare, expression perfectly impassive. </p><p>“Sure,” I said. “Give me a few weeks. Knowing my father, he won't let me take any jobs in Yorkshin until some dust covers my latest deeds.” </p><p>“Understood. Stay in headquarters until formalities are over. Oh, and” – He reached inside his bag and grabbed something rustling. Hill produced a pack of gummy bears and even bigger one of marshmallow. – “Here's something to preserve that sweetness about you.” – Pariston shoved colourful baggies into my hands. “You haven't changed one bit.” He smiled so wide; his rat eyes shut. Then he walked up to where Mizaistom was finishing his business with Kurapika. </p><p>If only Hill was correct. As much as I hated to admit it, a lot had happened and as a result – a lot had changed. I hoped my person wasn't among those variables. Be it as it may, it was as the good doctor said: what doesn't kill us, makes us stronger. At least in theory.</p><p> </p><p>“If it came from Hill, I would advise against putting it in your mouth,” Kurapika warned. </p><p>We were rambling along the alleys inside the police building complex. </p><p>I checked out the sweets. A regular convenience store candy. Harmless. Even if Hill poisoned it – not that he had any reason to try – it would hardly matter. On that note – I hadn't taken my ratio of toxins for quite some time. That would be the first thing served at my first family meal in half a year. Yet, there existed nothing I craved more. Having achieved the goal, I felt light-headed. At first, it seemed huge a challenge. Somewhere deep in, I feared the investigation would drag forever. Like a nightmare you go through over and over making little to no progress. But there it was – the last curve. I rarely get so sentimental. It didn't show, but internally I was weeping big fat tears of glee.</p><p>“So, I guess this is where our ways part,” Kurapika said. </p><p>“You should get some sleep, detective,” I advised. </p><p>“I took a stroll down NGL last night.” </p><p>I looked at him as if he told me, he had a death wish. In a way, he did deliver such message. </p><p>“I know what you're thinking. And yes, I hoped someone would attack me. But nobody dared.” </p><p>“The first lesson people of NGL learn is how to survive. They must have deemed you too dangerous to mess with.” </p><p>“I returned Mizaistom my badge.”</p><p>I inclined my head to let him know I was listening.  </p><p>“He didn't take it.” Kurapika sighed. “He knows what I've done… What we've done. I told him, from now on, I'm avenging my family. I'm making it my mission to hunt down the Troupe. That I'll go about it however I see fit. Does he want someone like that around? I crossed the line and vouched to cross it yet again when the right opportunity arises. And Mizai said, 'Yeah, make it your part-time activity.'” Kurta gave me a passing look. “I'm good for as long as I chase after Yorkshin hoodlums.” He craned his neck to toss a glance towards NGL. “Me and Mizai, we've never forgotten how this place came to be. Maybe it is better to have a cop like me, than to have no cop at all. That is Mizaistom's reasoning.”</p><p>“Hunting Spiders won't be easy,” I remarked.</p><p>“Is anything worthwhile easy?” Kurapika sighed again. “All in all, it was nice working with you, Illumi. An eye-opening experience. Since Mizai doesn't accept my badge back, we are still standing on opposite sides of law and order. But are we really…?”</p><p>“Everything is a matter of perspective. It always has been.”</p><p>“Say it in a whisper. Or better yet, don't say it at all.” </p><p>I was about to shake his hand and go to my apartment to start packing, but he had something more to add: </p><p>“I know you employed those fiends to get the case resolved. I assume the fake Headsman is a Spider. I'll get to him before his boss does.” </p><p>I didn't comment on that. Not my circus, not my monkeys. The reborn Kurapika was Chrollo's trouble now.  </p><p>“Want to take a guess what I can hear in there when I think Troupe?” Kurapika surveyed me with his Scarlet Eyes, placing an index finger on his temple.  </p><p>Corners of my mouth twitched. I couldn't help it. Then again, sometimes we do things spontaneously. “I imagine I know.” </p><p>“Yeah.” Kurapika nodded, lost in his thoughts. Although his lips carried a bleak presage, his voice sounded amazed, almost philosophical: “It's awfully silent in there.”<br/> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Inmates don't have many possessions in general. Not much packing to do. It didn't mean I could allow myself to be careless. Most of the items I owned came from Milluki's box, and that was chock-full of lethal substances. All the drugs, my brother's spying prototype, my spare clothes, my paper dolls, my pin-guns – all had to fit inside. 'Every good assassin can pack a tent inside a school bag' – my mum taught me. </p><p>Done with that, I had to hand over the Headsman's files to Kite. As well as return the keys to the rooftop. As well as remind someone to take care of the spying equipment up there. Since Palm was no longer present to receive the reminder, I opted for dropping keys at Leorio's. His office was next to Knov's for a reason, or so I once heard. </p><p>In the lab, I found Kite kneeling behind a table, bent over some carton box. Morel was waiting for the technician to finish his search. I said 'Hi' and dropped the files on the table. The thud made Kite rise his head. His eyes dashed side to side, before he squinted at papers that weren't there a moment earlier.</p><p>“I'm returning the documentation on the closed investigation,” I clarified</p><p>“Oh.” The technician scrunched his nose, as if I brought him a pile of steaming poo rather than papers. “I assume they belong to the archive.” </p><p>“I'll handle them,” Morel offered, grabbing the files. “So, that's it, huh?” He smiled at me. He always had that small smile plastered to his face. Even when his lips were sucking out the smoke from the pipe. “Well, if there is one thing that makes living in Yorkshin worth it, it is to watch criminals help bust other criminals.” Morel's big chest shook, as thunderous laughter rumbled inside it. </p><p>We shook hands. Then Kite offered his, much like he did the first time we met, from above his bent-over-the-box position. From down below. His hand was pale and smooth, grip delicate. We had more in common than the hair length. </p><p>“Cya,” Kite said, and returned to rummaging inside the cardboard box.</p><p>The door to Knov's office was closed. I didn't know if Palm was dead or alive, and I didn't care. Maybe I'd check once I'm back home. The vanishing man – true to his nick-name – dropped out of sight some time ago now. There was a new addition hugging his front door, though. The Crazy Sloths. The painting hung to the right of the door frame. In theory, it was not sitting in the waiting space of Leorio's office. I had some idea why Kite kept hanging it in the corridor. The technician could be unaffected by the creatures. But his assistants and everybody else wasn't this lucky. That day Sloths appeared almost casual. One of them had a hand raised in a 'good-bye' gesture. At this point, I couldn't even tell if that particular animal was always pictured like that or not. What an odd piece of art. I snorted, tipped to them my fedora, and walked off to knock on Leorio's door to the sound of “Come on in!”  </p><p>I entered his office, and dangled the keys over his desk.  </p><p>“I need to leave the keys to the rooftop with someone,” I explained. “Someone ought to collect the spyglass and binoculars I left up there, too.”  </p><p>“Sure, I'll pass them to Knov once I see him next year,” Leorio quipped. The medic scratched his forehead. The gesture made him look clumsy which I knew he wasn't. The doc rose from the armchair and pulled a visiting card from his white apron's pocket.  </p><p>“Here's my phone number.” Leorio handed me the card. “It rings in my office here as well as my flat. The doctor's fate – must be available at all times.”  </p><p>“Won't that eat at your conscience?” I really grew to like the man. So dedicated to his calling. Much like me. Such a shame we dwelt on polar opposites of the morality spectrum. Then again, maybe that was why I even entertained the idea. “Being of service to a killer? Patching him up so that he could kill again?”  </p><p>Leorio frowned. “I don't appreciate you phrasing it like this. I hope you'll see the light.” The doctor let out a haggard breath. “I've pulled out countless people from death's clutches. One of these days, I could help <em>you</em> out. You know, talk you out of… whatever it is that you do.”  </p><p>“Whatever it is that I do?” I echoed, battling for control over my mouth's corners. I managed to keep a straight face. Leaning in, I said soft but clear: “What I do is <em>murder</em> people for money, Leorio.” I watched, amused to no end, as his expression darkened.  </p><p>The doc winced, as if I punched him in the gut. Then he shrugged and gave me a grave look. He didn't demand his card back, so I stashed it in my coat's inner pocket, motion slow and calculated. My eyes never off the medic's confused face. Sometimes I felt like acting obscene. Kalluto developed a delight for torture. I always scolded him for that. Yet, at times, I found myself playing mind games with people who piqued my interest. Leorio was so easy to toy with. At the same time, he was so strong-willed. That god-damn unlit cig a testament to that. He played with his coffin nail, held it close, he could light it at any time – but never did. It was a dangerous game with one's self in its own right, especially if someone was prone to addiction. Who does that? Someone convinced that his will is indestructible.  </p><p>“I have faith in humankind,” Leorio said, his voice ice, expression sombre. “People can change. And so can you. It's never too late to correct the errors of your ways.”  </p><p>I smiled at the naivety. Had no heart to tell him. “You are a good man, Leorio.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Never change.”</p><p>Before I managed to step into the lab, my favourite trio blocked my way – officers Colt, Knuckle and Shoot. </p><p>“I hate goodbyes.” Colt wiped a tear off the corner of his eye. </p><p>“We have a parting gift for you,” Knuckle snickered, extending his arm towards me. He was holding a rather long, green box with a round, complicated yellow bow on top of it. I accepted it. </p><p>“Try to stay out of trouble,” Shoot said, looking no less concerned than he usually did. “You are no shamus, but you've been on the right side for long enough. Let it be your guide to redemption.” </p><p>Colt patted me on the arm, sniffling. </p><p>“Keep it close, will ya?” Knuckle sneered, grabbed one end of his woollen scarf, and tossed it over his shoulder with a wide gesture. “Unlike Shoot here, I have no delusions. Ta-ta!”  </p><p>And off they went. </p><p>When they vanished around the corner, I opened the box. Inside lied handcuffs. They were made of yellow metal, sturdier than copper. An alloy of iron with copper, perhaps? There were words engraved on one of the bracelets: 'For the Princess for when we meet again.' Solid handcuffs. I could put them to good use that the officers never imagined. I went back to my apartment to add them to Milluki's box.</p><p> </p><p>*<br/> </p><p>A black limousine with tinted windows awaited idly. Ignition was giving off an obedient murmur. Father sent for me his most trusted butler, who also happened to be a fantastic driver. Be it cars, two-wheelers or planes, Tsubone had a knack for vehicles. She was a big woman of considerable age, but don't let that misguide you. She could pack a punch that could send a grown man flying sky-high. Her granddaughter, Amane, approached me, bowed, and asked for the luggage. I passed her Milluki's box and asked for it to be placed in the back seats rather than in the carrier.</p><p>“It is wrong to let you go,” Mizaistom said, watching the butler move the burden with grace. “The only solace I find is in the safety of regular folks, now, that the Headsman is no more. I know you'll go back to killing before one could say 'murder'.”  </p><p>“Most definitely,” I agreed. “Let me leave you with some food for thought, lieutenant. I'm not killing because I want to, nor because I like to. I do it because someone pays me for it. I'm simply realizing the ill will of evil men and women.”  </p><p>Mizaistom chewed my words over in silence.  </p><p>“You think I don't know that? I wasn't born yesterday, Illumi.”  </p><p>“Stopping the sword won't get you far. Cutting hands eager to wield it, might.”  </p><p>He snorted, looking sullen. “How do I stop people from seeking your services, huh?”</p><p>It was a rhetorical question, but I answered it regardless: “I'm done solving your problems, lieutenant.”  </p><p>“I give you two weeks.” Mizaistom clenched his teeth. His forever-there straw pointed at me, like his secret, third index finger. “After that time, I'm telling the guys to chase you down the first moment they spot you. No matter if you killed by then or not.”  </p><p>“Sounds fairer than fair.” I looked up at him. “You're giving me more time than I expected. Have you taken a liking to me?”  </p><p>“If you weren't who you are, your talents would be welcomed here.”  </p><p>Mizaistom stepped closer and stared me deep in the eye. Here was the man I respected. The hardened man, with principles, yet empathetic heart. And somehow, despite all those flaws, he managed to capture me. He became a serious threat. Once upon a time.</p><p>“I will catch you again,” he promised.  </p><p>“No, lieutenant. You will <em>try</em>.” I tipped my hat to him and made myself scarce. I had little brother to pick up.</p><p>I asked Tsubone to make a stop by Hotel Rafflesia before the airport. At the hotel's reception I requested a phone call with a white-haired boy who booked a room there. It pleased me to find out Kill didn't give out his true identity. Like Hisoka once said, such a boy catches the eye. The receptionist allowed me to use her phone to ring Loony Freaks. Kill picked up after two rings. </p><p>“The car is outside,” I said. “Get your bags and come down.” </p><p>While I waited for the boys, I contemplated the yesterday. Goodbyes took me a while. Longer than I expected. Never have I thought, I would come to know so many folks. Something was missing, though. One guy I didn't have the opportunity to say proper goodbye to. Oh, I will take my sweet time planning. Planning and preparation – the best part of any job. Even if it was only my personal little project. That would be the longest goodbye ever. </p><p>“Hell, bro. Stop smirking like that. It gives me the creeps,” Kill said, one bag in his functioning hand. I relieved him off it. </p><p>“What smirk?” I asked, face wooden, voice flat. </p><p>“The one that makes me feel sorry for the poor sod you have been thinking about just a moment earlier.” </p><p>“Oh. That is no one important.” I ruffled his hair, ignoring the other boy, who was grinning like a fool. Out of all the people in the world, Kill decided to befriend someone like that… “All right, let's get going.” </p><p>I noticed Killua reaching out for Gon's bag, taxing me with his stormy eyes. I groaned, and snatched the other bag as well. Before I had a chance to give an order to open the door, Amane showed up, holding it for me. Boys darted outside and towards the car, giggling. </p><p>“Do you need help with that, master Illumi?” Amane asked. </p><p>“No. I'm fine.” </p><p>And truth be told – I was. More than fine, in fact. </p><p>“Ow! Marshmallow!” I heard Kill's yell. </p><p>The boys' laughter dominated the traffic noise. Some more rustling. That little vacuum cleaner for sweets. Kill was damn fast finding those, too. Has he developed an additional sense for sugar?  </p><p>I put the bags into the trunk. Asked Amane to keep a watchful eye on Kill and Gon, so that they didn't eat all that marshmallow and gummy bears at once. I took the front passenger seat, next to Tsubone. We drove off to the airport. My thoughts seemed to travel independent directions. Back to the past and forth to the future. I didn't believe my old life ended when they arrested me. As it turned out, I was correct. I desired nothing more but a peace and quiet of my favourite garden in our residency on Kukuroo Mountain. I had to keep a low profile for a week or two. Already decided to make the most out of it. So much free time on my hands and for what? For making Hisoka realize the costs of toying with the Zoldycks' heir.  <br/> </p><p>⸸⸸⸸  </p><p> </p><p>And this is how we've made a full circle. Here we are, back where we've started. It has been a long voyage. It belongs to the past. Yet, memories are imprinted firmly in my mind – as vivid as if it all ended only yesterday. My pardon is a month and a half old. Autumn reigns now, and with it – autumn rain. It has not relented a whit. I made it to where I wanted to be. It seems, I'm a tad too early.</p><p>The sky is weeping. I try to read a deeper sense into those heavenly tears. Whom is the sky crying for? For the injustice of the delayed goodbye, mayhap. </p><p>Yorkshin streets – one depressing sight. Tonight, they are foggier than ever. I don't mind fog. It helps cover tracks. Those nightmarish alleys and passageways which saw so much bloodshed. They are too happy to welcome me back. Yorkshin lives off of misery and decay. I am the hand that feeds the beast. We have developed a bond. There is a synergy betwixt us.</p><p>Something about this city… I used to hate it the way one could hate one's natural eye colour. Superficial means of hiding the defect help only for so long. It belongs to you. The mind knows. Nothing to remedy the situation, unless you're ready to maim yourself. It's either that or learning how to appreciate the abhorrent. Somewhere along the way, I started equating Yorkshin with a second home. Home always rings true-blue for me. This is how we found our rhythm, our peace. </p><p>If one day you realize the thing as detestable belongs to you, you're trying to rationalize it, embrace it. To find something appealing about it. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and as such I see when Yorkshin puts on an enchanting countenance. It happens during winter. When the thick cover of fresh snow hides all the deep scars, all the repellent secrets. In winter – when life dies off or retreats to hibernate. Only then – half dead, suspended – this city appears near magical. Now? All is dripping wet. Water splashes in storm drains. Steam rises from manholes. Unforgiving wind bites the skin, aiming to blind. It's a war down here. When people don't fight, elements do; always something. And always violent. </p><p>I killed time reflecting on the past. Now and then neon lights glowed red. When it happened, out of the sudden the ubiquitous moisture changed colour scarlet. One blink of an eye, and running water mysteriously turned into flowing rivers of blood. The red fog rose to my knees. The red-lit spray swirled around my face, as if it wanted to look into my eyes to learn if I was at it again. I sure was. Nobody there to understand the language of neon lights. Nobody to decipher warnings whispered by the downpour. It is autumn rain after all. People would rather not be caught in it. They much prefer observing it from afar, somewhere safe, dry and warm. The same way they like to watch catastrophic events. There is something in the human soul that craves destruction and danger. My whole life is so much like this monotone deluge. Unpleasant – one could say. Cold? – Fair enough. Wet and messy? – Only if requested. Slow and silent? – I can be both. Violent in its persistence? – You bet. Once seen, never forgotten. And returning over and over because this is how this world is organized.  </p><p>It feels like everything has fallen back into its place. Only it hasn't. There is one thing amiss.  </p><p>Hisoka bestowed something upon me – a small paranoia. Kill resumed his training. With it, my panic attacks dropped in frequency. Yet, they haven't disappeared. The recollection of mortal fret nested itself deep. It occupied my thoughts, both conscious and subconscious. He gave me nightmares I never had before. Perhaps meeting the man who has inflicted it face-to-face would fix my head? Did it take bearing witness to alike panic reflecting in the golden eyes? What he did to Kill, alone purchased him a visit from me. I'd sleep better knowing Hisoka never tries anything like this again. We had an unfinished business. Time to put a closure on this.  </p><p>Wet autumn evening became wet autumn night. The wind blew, wrathful. The state of my umbrella – the best testimony to its bloodthirsty nature. Observation – can't start any operation without it. It was the fourth day, and the final one. Time to make a move. I've got everything prepared; every detail polished.  </p><p>I stood under the dimly lit awning of a shoemaker's shopfront. Only a pedestrian, tired of holding a no-good umbrella, browsing a newspaper. Maybe I was waiting for a cab? Maybe for the wind to lessen? I flipped through damp pages, not paying attention to articles.  </p><p>What interested me were lights on the second floor in an apartment across the street. When home, Hisoka always left one window opened, downpour or not. That was the window in his living room. The neighbouring window – a bathroom. I waited for that one to light up. Meantime, I went back to headlines:  </p><p> </p><p><b>Bomber attacks again. Explosion in city mall kills 3, injures 15.</b> '<em>Perpetrator</em> <em>plants explosives on unsuspecting citizens'</em> lieutenant Mizaistom warns. </p><p>
  <b>Needle returns? Yorkshin Echo journalist found dead with needle in each eye. </b>
</p><p><b>Headsman dies few steps outside his cell.</b> <em>'He had it comin'</em> prison guard, Old Joe, summarizes.  </p><p> </p><p>Another glance across the street. The lights in the living room went off. Moments later the bathroom lit up. Tossing the useless umbrella aside, I let the rain droplets thud on my fedora. I crossed the street and vanished in the dark alley next to the building I was interested in. Quick glimpse at the space between dumpsters. My enhanced chain left there in the morning rested untouched, wrapped in a black plastic bag. It fit in nice, resembling another deposit of overflowing trash. I climbed up the gutter. Could hear a shower starting in the bathroom. The deluge covered my sounds, although the slippery dampness did not make the task any easier.</p><p>While Hisoka was taking a shower, I hid behind his dresser, a chloroform bottle in one hand, a clean gauze in another. The living room was now grey with blue sheens. Shadows of rain droplets moved along the opposite wall. The rain shimmered, reflecting some distant city lights and neon glow, much closer. The bed stood under the window. On it – sagging sweaters. Hisoka had such a choice of ugliness, it was astounding. The man wasn't unattractive, appearance-wise. Yet, he chose to hide his looks under repellent fashion. I get hiding battle scars, but there were so many better options to go about it. Other than rusty sweaters, his room looked rather plain. No paintings, no trinkets, no fancy stuff. White walls, no mould, clean carpet, dusted off shelves with few books on them. A set of playing cards on the night stand. A cabinet with alcohol was opened. In it, various liquors, drinking glasses, some snacks and a small mound of bubble gum. Nice living space but for one defect – stench of sweet cherry touched every surface.</p><p>15 minutes passed. The man emerged from the bathroom, wearing a blue robe. A toothbrush in his mouth. I held my breath. A safe opening presented itself when he was taking a turn to stroll back to the bathroom. I jumped out from the shadows, and put all force into my elbow to knock him cold. Hisoka gasped, fell down, yet tried to prop himself up on his hands. Damn tough bastard. I pressed the chloroform-soaked fabric to his face. Only then had he passed out. While I was relieving him of his bathrobe, I noticed a spider tattoo on his back. Number four. Congratulations on joining the Troupe. I vanished on the other side of the window to collect the chain. It has been a strong, solid piece of metal, reinforced with barbed wire. Best not to tell Kurapika what concepts his habits could inspire in a mind creative enough. I sprawled the chain on the carpet, and proceeded with rolling Hisoka over it. Had to make sure he was left with as little free space to roam about as possible. Barbed wire's spikes pricked his flesh like thirsty mosquitoes. 'Princess' handcuffs' to close the circuit. They weren't needed, but I found it amusing to use them. Something told me I tied Hisoka a bit too tight. </p><p>To keep it safe, I threw the robe over his back. No need for snooping eyes to see those iron binds, and wonder. No need for them to see blood trickling down from where the spikes drilled into the skin. After a second thought, I dressed him in one of those excuses for sweaters. I took a random one from the collection scattered on the bed. In my estimation they all were equally offending to the sense of aesthetics. I covered it under the robe before my eyes started bleeding too</p><p>We moved out the way I entered. The gutter shook from our combined weights. It only looked scary. Old buildings. Back in the day, they build them so that they could withstand frequent gang wars. This is how I knew; the gutter would survive our descension. Especially since midway I got tired. Thought, I shouldn't strain myself; we had a long night ahead of us. I dropped Morow's body like a sack of bricks. It landed with a splash in a puddle. How unfortunate. The guy weighed some. Luckily, I had a car parked nearby. Left it there in the morning, so it looked like it belonged there, abandoned for a full day. Nothing out of ordinary, kind neighbours. No need to be alarmed, everybody. Especially not you, Hisoka.</p><p>I drove us to the place the fresh Phantom Trouper guessed pretty quick, when he came to. Me, I kept my mouth shut all the way. I was playing with a needle, tossing it from one corner of my mouth to another. A habit I picked up after the Headsman's case. It settled in for good. Mizaistom's goodbye present he never knew he gifted. Or Leorio's. Or Morel's. The needle's sharp tip tinkled against my teeth, meanwhile Hisoka was trying to be funny. </p><p>For an unusual person he was, Morow acted like many of my marks when I was taking them to their execution place. He talked and talked, sometimes joked, sometimes let a question out. The moment Hisoka realized where we were headed, theories never stopped escaping his mouth. Some were so preposterous I forced myself not to roll my eyes. I said nothing. I was never the one to speak much. Kept it silent when we arrived; silent when I push-walked Hisoka into the building we both knew too well. Silent, when I stripped him, so that Morow wore only his barbed wire chains jacket and the spider tattoo. Silent when I sat him on the electric chair. The control room on the other side of the one-way mirror was empty and dark. Well visible. I brought little light. Only a handful of flares.  </p><p>“I can't believe you're about to kill me.” Hisoka tossed his head to the back and roared with laughter.</p><p>I slapped him across the face. To my surprise, a bubble gum jumped out of his mouth. He was chewing on it, and I never noticed… Wasn't he brushing his teeth when I knocked him out? That was some magic trick if I ever saw one. </p><p>“After all I have done for you?”</p><p>I whacked Morow on the other cheek for a good measure, watching scarlet droplets depart from his split lip.</p><p>Having spat some blood out, he babbled on: “It's some kind of foreplay, isn't it?” </p><p>A punch in the sack. Would he finally shut up? </p><p>“Aren't you going to talk to me?” he asked after a longer pause. Uncomfortable with silence. It was only natural for such a chatterbox. </p><p>I raised the switch to my eyes level when Hisoka collected himself enough to look at me. The bubble gum enthusiast was uncertain if he would survive the night. But he found it in himself to still joke about it:</p><p>“Well, at least it will happen here, where you moaned so lusciously beneath me. Oh, the memories.” </p><p>“My moans for your screams.” I unlocked the switch with a loud snap. “A fair trade.” I stabilized his lolling head and made him look me in the eyes again. “You can scream now if you want to. It will cut the duration of your lesson in half.” </p><p>The red button went down. Hisoka's warm-up began. The redhead jolted on the chair when electricity rushed through his body. Light bulbs installed on the ceiling sent a strong flash and started blinking. The room Kill sat in once, became harassed by short outbursts of strong light. I could see mine and Hisoka's reflections in the mirror. It appeared and disappeared in quick succession. Made my head spin. Visions like an after-image. A distant memory of some sorts that didn't belong to anyone. Or a glimpse into a parallel universe. It seemed surreal. Déjà vu, but not exactly.</p><p>Hisoka gritted his teeth. The red uncombed hair rose the way he liked styling it for the Fight Club. I cut the current off the moment I smelled something burning. That was also when I heard a weak wailing coming from Hisoka's throat. Not a scream I waited for. I secured the button, put it away, and shortly after I tossed the man off the chair. Busy catching ragged breaths, Morow dropped on the cold, dusty tiles. Heated chains burned some hair from his arms and legs. He didn't seem to have any on his chest. Blood trickled from many small puncture wounds.</p><p>I reached to my trench coat's pocket and pulled out a photo folded in four. It was a recently taken picture of Kill. Upon his return home I presented him a machine gun. He was holding it proudly, smirking. A bad-boy smile for his big brother. I loved that smirk. I smoothed out the photo and placed it on the chair, then illuminated it with a single blue flare. Hisoka tried to get to his knees. No luck with that. Chains were holding well. No support from arms pressed to his sides.  </p><p>I grabbed Hisoka by the hair and shoved him face-first towards the photograph. </p><p>“This is so that you don't forget whom you did wrong and what you are atoning for,” I informed. </p><p>“Or is it the only way for you to get it up?” He broke out a high-pitched giggle. </p><p>I couldn't let it slide, not without a mighty kick in the gut. Hisoka's spine arched, the air exited his loud mouth with a puff. Red droplets dripped on the tiles. I jolted his head up, made him look at the brown photo, and demanded: </p><p>“Apologize to Kill. Mean it.” </p><p>“I'm so sorry, Killua.” He gasped, falling over to the left. Still dizzy from the shock. Or the kick. Who knows? </p><p>“Say you will never use him like you did. <em>Ever</em>.” </p><p>“I will never… use you for any reason, promise.” </p><p>I released my grip, satisfied. Hisoka face-planted on the floor, the chains rattling, biting deeper into his skin. I raised my brow when I heard him snicker again. Some people didn't know when to stop. Morow turned his head, finding support on right cheekbone, yellow eyes burning into mine. </p><p>“Don't think for a second you are better than me, you sick son of a bitch. You're just as bad if not worse.” </p><p>Another kick, right in the kidney. That one for mum.  </p><p>I moved his legs apart with my foot, and bent a bit to have a look under. Hisoka was barely finding support on his shaking knees and face, but got half-hard already. With a sigh, I took my fedora and coat off, tossing them aside. Grabbed my bag and took out tools I readied for tonight. First things first. A portable, adjustable variation of a sunbed. Well, it was anything but comfy. You could lay a person on it, and the bed would stand still no matter how violently they kicked and tossed about. I sprawled eight iron legs and flattened out the solid fabric's surface. Next, I yanked at Hisoka's chains. Barbed wire pricked my hands, but that was all fine. I lifted the man and placed him belly down on the bed. His knees were still touching the slippery tiles. His upper body rested on the black, slick, glistering material. Blood washes off of it nice and easy. Professional equipment brings joy to the heart.</p><p>The bag with tricks in hand, I faced my captive. The golden eyes watched, curious. I opened the bag, and took out the needles. Abundance of substances. Colourful. Beautiful. Like a rainbow.</p><p>“I heard you say tricks excite you.” I placed syringes on the ground in a neat row. “So, I brought several tricks of my making.” I presented them in order: “The red one makes you blind. Yellow one makes you deaf. Blue one makes you numb. Green steals your taste and smell. The last two, the white ones, to further screw with your brain.”</p><p>“I was so scared you didn't love me.”</p><p>I ignored the smart-ass comment. I brought one more trick, but that one, he'll learn the hard way.</p><p>“You are a blabbermouth, so this one goes in first.” I raised the green injection. “Turns tongue into a wooden roller. It will feel like your throat constricts, crushing your windpipe each time you as much as <em>think</em> of swallowing.” I measured out the right dose, letting the excess escape through a graceful tiny fountain. “It was bold of you, to stick needles in me. But you've chosen the wrong guy to mess with. It is <em>I</em> who is the master of needles, <em>friend</em>.” I showed him the shot, rotating it between my fingers. “Not to mention, my knowledge of substances far surpasses yours.”</p><p>I put the syringe away, lifted Morow's head, and shoved two fingers inside his mouth, looking for the right spot. He had all his wisdom teeth! Then into the palate it goes. It would take a bit longer for the toxin to work. Not a problem. I stuck the needle there and forced the drug in. Took the red one, measured the right quantity, squirting the rest to the floor. Injected it around the same spot on the roof of his mouth. Half of the blue one went to Hisoka's sides, the other half below the neck and lower back. In less than two minutes, the paralysis should spread evenly across the muscles. It would give his body properties of both rubber and gum. You kicked the man, and he would bounce off walls.</p><p>I checked his eyes. The pupils – dilated; so big you could hardly tell Hisoka's true eye colour. I pulled on his stiff lip. Numb already. Pricked it with the needle – no reaction to pain whatsoever. Chains could be removed; nothing to hold for them any longer. The jester's arms dropped to the floor like dead meat they pretty much became.</p><p>“I could cripple you in ways you never thought possible. Or I could give you another sensual round…”</p><p>Holding the yellow syringe in one hand, and his jaw in another, I pressed my mouth against his. His tongue – unresponsive. Saliva trickled down Hisoka's chin. Out of control. Nerves completely dead. He could only listen to his surroundings by now. So, I made sure the kiss was loud and wet, rich with 'MMMs' – only mine to experience in full. I can be an asshole too, Morow. Bet you didn't know. Eat your heart out.</p><p>“Pity, you will derive zero satisfaction from it,” I said in my monotone. “There is this famous differentiation: some people eat to live, whilst others live to eat. With you, it's a bit different story. Most use their senses to carry on living, but you seem to live only to sate your senses. Which is why, I'm shutting them down before our sweet time together. The drugs are measured so that they wear off simultaneously. And when they do, you will wake up to the world of excruciating agony.”</p><p>I made a grab for his palms and started breaking all his fingers. He couldn't feel that yet. But boy, he will feel it when the drugs let go. The cracking sound of something shattering in your body – that alone is unnerving. I wanted to do this the moment I realized he had ratted me out to Kurapika during my chase after Wild Thing.</p><p>“Even your imagination won't help you when I'm through.” I stood up. “I've left little chance for things to go sideways. Never fear, though. You won't be alone in this. <em>I'll be right behind you</em>.” I moved the yellow substance near the base of his skull. “Kiss your last sense goodbye, toots.” </p><p>By the time I injected everything I brought into his system, his muscles were completely lax. One more circle to admire my work. Then I noticed Killua staring at me from the photo. As if he wanted to tell me something. </p><p>“What is that, Kill?” I asked, more to entertain myself rather than for any other reason, since there was nobody around to hear me talk. “Are you sure about that? Isn't that sort of cruel? I mean, look at him.” </p><p>Extending my arms, I presented the numb, defenceless body to the non-existent audience. No one there to appreciate my hard work. No one to witness perfection. No one but me and the photo. Some exhibits are best left out of sight. A lesson Tserriednich failed to grasp. This line of work demands modesty. No matter how astounding the end effect, you should never crave acknowledgement from the outside. Few would understand and appreciate it, anyway.  </p><p>I crouched down next to Hisoka – by now drugged out of his mind – and ran my finger along his left arm. </p><p>“Well, I guess it's only fair to do this, wouldn't you say? All right. Okay, okay. If you insist. You know there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you.” </p><p>One quick motion, and the bone in Morow's left arm snapped. A clean fracture. It would heal in no time. But before it does, it will hurt like hell. A temporary loss. Chrollo will forgive me for disabling his new crew mate.</p><p>I checked my watch.  </p><p>3: 28 a.m. Drugs should hold for 25 minutes to half an hour. I returned to my bag for the last surprise. No drug this time. A balm. A curious balm composed by my beloved great-great-grandma. Another unique, Zoldyck only produce. </p><p>It was a powerful medicine. So potent, it disinfected and sped up the healing of the deepest cuts. Providing it was given a chance. It could neutralize some poisons, none of which Hisoka took in. After all, I knew what I was doing. The issue with that balm was, it contained a strong hallucinogenic. For an untrained individual, the side effect defeated the purpose of using it. When the balm mixed with blood, the irritated skin started feeling funny. You couldn't shake off the idea that your flesh itched, blistered and tore off. Although nothing like this happened in reality, the mind concocted its own tale. The injured place appeared to ooze a horrid smelling liquid. The illusory stench seemed to attract all the bugs in the vicinity. You could even hear patters of tiny legs. Or feel light touches of long, thin antennae as your mind panicked to the hallucination. You'd think the critters crawled under your skin, not only where the balm was rubbed in but everywhere. I should know. I had to take it one day a week during my endurance training. You wanted to scratch your meat off your bones and cry your lungs out. So convinced you were, that all the insects of the land were feasting on your living flesh. You feared the cut became one, inviting, gaping wound. Whereas in reality it was healing rapidly. Unless you put your fingers in it, of course.  </p><p>I ran the sharp end of my needle along Hisoka's skin, then covered fresh injuries with a thin layer of the medicine. Three cuts to the back, one to each side, one on each arm and leg. That should do. </p><p>In 20 minutes Hisoka would receive all the post-effects, all at once. I glanced at the photograph. 20 minutes for myself. Peace and quiet. After that time this well-toned, battle-scarred body will become restless. Better to install myself in it before the show begins. I took my belt off to tie the jester's wrists on his back. Must have those hands under control when all hell breaks loose. It didn't matter that one arm was broken. To a mind as loaded as his was, information was sinking in slowly. Had I sported a more sinister attitude, I'd add something torturous to the lube. No need to be vicious. I was teaching a lesson here. If I wanted, I could kill him already. However, there were several reasons against that. For one – Hisoka was a Spider now, and as such he could prove useful. Or one day, he might push someone's buttons; someone's with a wallet fat enough to afford the Zoldycks. Should it happen, I'll be there to get that contract. Hisoka quenched the fire I harboured for my brother. Not entirely, but enough for me to be more aware of consequences. No matter how much I hated the way he went about it, he did it. For that alone he earned a chance to live through my ministrations. Final thing – he was not a target. I'd hate to make Zeno unhappy by braking rules without a valid reason to justify it.</p><p>Hisoka was wrong; I wasn't excited enough, Kill's photo or not. Didn't come here for carnal pleasures, but to get my message across. It required a quick hand-work. I poured some lube on my condom-wrapped erection and smeared the rest of it over the cheeks in front of me. Spread them and slid in. No resistance. I cut through slack muscles like a hot knife through butter. </p><p>At 3:32 a.m. I hear a beep on my messenger. Another one of Milluki's prototypes. Milluki confirms my next target's location. I have three days to honour this contract. Quick glance at my watch. Looks like I'll manage to deliver tonight. </p><p>3:46 a.m. Most of his muscles are asleep. Fingers twitch a little. Toxins wear off, but he is still drifting far and beyond. Silence. I appreciate it. It is so different from the last time we were here. I toss a glance at the control room on the other side of the mirror; now dark, now empty. The last time I was there, it was taken hostage by intrusive pink jelly. The last time I was there, it was me who was tripping. I know the calm won't last for long. I'm keeping an even pace regardless, as if we had all the time in the world. Kill is smiling from the photo. Justice is being served here. It's almost serene. </p><p>3:50 a.m. Morow attempts to move, but his limbs are weak. Not to mention one is out of order. I hear an inarticulate mumble. A deep sigh escapes my lips. Waking-up muscles tense around me, sending shivers down my spine. The blue injection lets go completely. Hisoka's body spasms as the stiffness retracts. My head flies to the back, it rocks to the sides, as I swim in convulsing warmth. The friction gives me goosebumps. I could get used to that feeling. My eyes close, ears await the scream. It shouldn't take long.  </p><p>3:52 a.m. The first gasp; the first, raucous, shaky: “Take them off me.” The realization that something is horribly off creeps in. Two white shots meant for his cognitive functions are still holding. His good hand tugs at my belt. I yank at it back. Uh-uh. We are not there yet.</p><p>3:54 a.m. He is awake now. Earlier than he should be. That's fine. I took such a turn of events into consideration. Not entirely aware of his predicament, he knows he hurts. It is <em>lots</em> of places where bugs crawl and fire burns. The red head turns, tendons strain. Legs kick the ground clumsily; arms try to figure out what's up with those fingers. As if by pressing of a button, Morow starts jolting like a mad man. It feels like a rodeo. Damn, he's strong. But so am I. My portable bed is holding okay. Professional equipment makes all the difference.  </p><p>“Don't strain your left arm,” I tell him. “It's broken.” </p><p>He hears my voice, recognizes it. Maybe I shouldn't have spoken. Bah! No use crying over spilt milk. He lies still for a few seconds. I know what that is – the calm before the storm. After that last jerk, he won't have much more steam in him. And there it is. Morow jumps, struggles, catches rapid breaths, swallows or tries to, connects the dots. I'm having the time of my life. But we are not there yet. Where is that scream of mine? </p><p>3:56 a.m. When he finally finds his voice, he's giving it to pain. The scream vibrates within the empty walls. I am a man of few simple needs, most of them catered for my occupation, but this sound – I relish. A joyful laughter escapes me, chasing after his shriek like cat after mouse. It echoes underground where nobody can hear us. The control room on the other side of the one-way mirror is still empty. I don't know what I've expected to see there. There is not a soul inside the complex. Possibly, it was due to fear that I'll hallucinate again. That my paranoia would remind me of itself. After all, this is the place that gave birth to it. Nothing happens. Phobia doesn't strike. I'm more than pleased. </p><p>“How is my trick working for you?” I ask. </p><p>“Illumi!” Hisoka wails, his voice husky, dry like desert sand. “Mercy!” </p><p>“Go on. The room is soundproof. Let me hear your voice.” </p><p>He sucks in the air as if in hope he could drink it. I know he's thirsty. Hisoka's chest heaves when he manages to slur out: </p><p>“I have a <em>sense</em> you are holding back.” </p><p>“…”</p><p>I stop instantly and blink, thinking I must have misheard. I yank the belt that holds his hands together. The tone of his cries changes. He goes back to his old dirty act. Morow moans a lustful yearning howl. Sounds funny with his voice so hoarse, but the difference is impossible to ignore. Not how I've planned it. It's a good thing I learned not to cling to details the way I used to. About time to embrace minor disappointments. My previous attitude got me jailed. </p><p>“Can feel every bone in my body. Well done.” Talking poses a difficulty to him. His windpipe must be on fire. Swallowing spittle must feel like pushing dust down the tube padded with sand paper. “I'm quite battered, actually.” He grunts and wiggles, trying to glance at me. Feeble, broken, inhumanly dehydrated, yet so lively. “You've attained your end. I'd rather be conscious from the get go. Something tells me I've missed a lot of fun.” A painful hiss escapes through his teeth. “Oh, goodness gracious!” Hisoka breaks into a coughing fit. “Need a drink. You think you could at least moisture my lips?”</p><p>I tilt to the side, my features static, no expression. Nothing on me shows how much his endurance amazes me. Golden eyes lock on my blank face. They are sober again, half-lidded, malicious mirth burns behind them. His tongue, once more operational, scrubs over split lips, chapped from all the drugs I fed him.</p><p>Hisoka sighs and impales himself on my dick that is already buried balls deep in his ass. He's barely holding together. He is shaking all over. But he's still doing it with whatever little strength he has left. </p><p>“It's working nice,” he croaks. </p><p>“Huh?” I breathe out. </p><p>“Your trick.” </p><p>“Oh…” </p><p>I don't even need to move; he's doing everything for me. Slides in and out on his own, as if it means something precious to him. Well, it is not every day that you get sense-deprived and raped while tripping on an expertly mixed, unique dosage of hard drugs. What is the phrasing? Fucked senseless? A one-in-a-life-time experience. Maybe I can understand why he is taking matters into his hands so fervently. So to speak. </p><p>He opens his mouth again; words roll off his tongue like gravel: </p><p>“Except, it feels like I have bugs crawling under my skin.” He shivers in an attempt to shrug the phantom critters off.</p><p>I shake my head, a bit resigned, a little shocked. Best to finish what I've started. Hisoka is not silent any more. His throaty moans and groans make you think someone is working a wood saw through aged planks. I ignore the noise, focusing on motions. We are well attuned, synchronized, all things considered. It is still getting me where I want to be, despite that small disappointment.</p><p>What a curious guy. He even manages to come before I do. And all I touch is his hips for stability. I'm surprised he ejaculates semen and not sand. I'm surprised he got it up at all. I would never believe something like this possible, have I not witnessed it. Were I to kill him, would he rise from grave to mock me? Everything seems possible now. I'm not furious, nor am I sad. It's… I never met anyone like this before. Giving respect where it is due, he has mine. No matter how crazy Hisoka is, he can sustain a lot, much like me, and raise not a word of complaint. Much like me. We may be different in many ways, but in many ways, we indeed are alike. </p><p>At least we avenged your poor arm, Kill. Next time he tries to get near you, he will lose his. That's a promise. </p><p>I feel I'm close and clench my teeth. It happens every time. Dunno why. It is just something I do. When I unload, Hisoka is still shuddering below me. It could be the balm's effect, toxins wearing off, excitement or exhaustion. Or a combination of the four. I check my watch. </p><p>4:24 a.m. Playtime is over. I take out the card from my breast pocket.</p><p>“This offer still stands?” I ask, showing Hisoka the card. </p><p>It takes him a while to read the words. His lids narrow, his gaze is unfocused. Letters must be blurry for those golden eyes. Morow eventually recognizes the card, and once he does, he smiles from ear to ear. His mouth move, voice gone this time, but I can read his lips: 'Sure.' And then he adds, so inaudible that I have to concentrate on his mouth again: 'Kind of you for having kept it.' </p><p>So, I have. More for practical than sentimental reasons. You keep your friends close and your enemies even closer. Hisoka knows one thing about me that could get me in serious trouble. Yet, is he not useful an asset? He can be my eyes inside the Phantom Troupe. Especially now, that Kalluto shows stubborn eagerness to join the Spiders. Furthermore, with how much he loves to fight, I could start taking more demanding jobs that father hesitates accepting. I estimate the card again:  </p><p> </p><p><em> Have a problem? </em>♠  </p><p><em> Need a partner in crime? </em>♣  </p><p><em> Come on over any time. </em>♥  </p><p><em> Signed: The Magician. </em>♦  </p><p> </p><p>It's a bit rumpled, some blood stains found their way on its front. How did this happen, and when? Whose blood even is this? It feels like ages passed, since I found the card in Kurapika's file case. I put it back in my pocket. The offer doesn't have an expiration date. </p><p>“Get yourself up. I'll put you back where I took you from.” I pull out, put my pants on, and retrieve my belt.</p><p>Collecting empty syringes scattered on the floor takes a moment. The chain, the 'Princess' cuffs', the portable bed – all goes back to the bag. There is a bottle of fresh water inside. I take it out and pass it to the redhead. Hisoka opens his mouth. Oh, right. I pour the water down his throat. Something tells me Machi will curse my name when Morow leans on her for assistance until those broken bones mend. As he downs the liquid, I admire many puncture wounds covering his body like symptoms of measles.</p><p>„Look at you,” I pretend astonishment. “What have you been doing? Rolling over wild roses?”</p><p>Hisoka snorts. Water trickles down his chin.</p><p>“Much appreciated,” he says, when the bottle is emptied. His voice sounds less torn. “Nice to finally meet you properly.”</p><p>I raise a brow. I had to behave during the Headsman investigation. Had to put up with many inconveniences I wouldn't be bothered with otherwise. But I was not so much removed from my true character. Can't sense any tease in his words. He speaks casually. This tells me we are even. We have a truce.</p><p>He moves limply to put on the sweater. Left sleeve dangles empty to the side. Another one-armed guardian angel. Of what? Of many secrets, that's for sure. Hisoka throws the bathrobe over his shoulders, still shuddering.</p><p>I give the place the final once-over, and when I deem the room tidied enough, I snatch Kill's photo from the electric chair. We move out. </p><p>Yorkshin is a madhouse, distorting reality like no drug could. I came here to humiliate a man; to put him in a state of misery. To kill him – was an option. I'm leaving the place, offering him my water supplies and a ride home. And he is still breathing. Nothing makes sense any more.  </p><p>It's 4:30 a.m. </p><p>Better get a move on if I want that contract dealt with today.</p><p>The sky is overcast, clotted with leaden clouds. Another sad autumn morning in Yorkshin. I don't mind; I was never the one to complain. Nothing has changed on the grand scale. Only a few details have; a thing I no longer care for. No more obsessing over details.  </p><p>For me everything goes back to how it used to be. Which means all is going according to plan. Hisoka is already sound asleep, sprawled in the back seat of my car. All according to plan – for the most part. Minor changes will never ruin the greater picture of who Illumi Zoldyck is. And he's a professional, if you've ever wondered. </p><p>Changes. They are like gates through which opportunities arrive. Prospects of novelty. They do seem to be there only to cause you a headache, to ruin your old ways. The saying goes: 'better' is an enemy of 'good enough.' Then again, how far would we advance, if we rested on our laurels? In the end, it is only a matter of how much in control are you. If you manipulate impending changes right, it will lead to your growth. Rulers and governments always battled for it. Masters in meditation spend lifetimes to learn it. I have made it my motto. At the end of the day, it boils down to this: Control is all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapters:</p><p>1. Among Rats ~ Illumi is jailed and Yorkshin is ugly. Introduction. </p><p>2. In the dark all cats are grey ~ Illumi gets to know Mizaistom's crew, and starts to familiarize himself with the Headsman's case.</p><p>3. No rest for the wicked ~ Silva cares not if Illu is a full-time detective now. He's still an assassin for a life-time.</p><p>4. You do not talk about Fight Club ~ Illu tails Hisoka to a place you do not talk about. </p><p>5. The Little Prince and his mince ~ Illu and Kurapika go to the art gallery. It is a bad day to be Illumi Zoldyck. </p><p>6. Down in the park with a friend called fire ~ Illumi vs the firestarter.</p><p>7. Fear and loathing in Yorkshin ~ A horrible loss befalls detective Kurapika. He will never be the same again.</p><p>8. Mind over matter ~ Hisoka lures Illumi into a trap. Illu will do anything to buy his brother time to escape. </p><p>9. Might makes right ~ The operation to bring the Headsman to justice begins. Chrollo's cobweb over entire Yorkshin ahoy.</p><p>10. Sense x No x Evil ~ Illumi proves that he is the one with the best tricks. Needles have only one master, and Hisoka ain't it. <br/>(This is also where the story ends for hisoillu devotees. If you don't want to ruin your hisoillu experience, stop here, since this was where originally the story was supposed to end.)</p><p>11. No oath nor rule (Epilogue) </p><p> </p><p>About AU:</p><p>Detectives, evildoers, madmen, femme fatales, crimes, dipped in a sauce Noir. No Nen, sadly. But since it's based on a comic, and inspired by a different comic (Sin City), some comic-oddity may still occur. </p><p>The reality resembles 1940 - 1960, which means no widespread usage of the Internet and no mobile phones. </p><p>English is not my first language. Sorry for any errors that will inevitably manifest. I'll correct, once I'm made aware of them.</p><p> </p><p>Other stuff and thankies (as I don't want to litter the text with end notes):</p><p>A big thanks for Kevin for coming up with the Headsman. I suck at naming characters in English, my ideas were far worse.</p><p>If someone is curious about the song Illumi considers his fav in this fic, it's "Killing strangers" by Marilyn Manson. A great song to an awesome movie. Don't want to break immersion by dropping a modern artist's name into this works, so stopped at short description only and on leaving a note.</p><p>I love Togashi for HxH and I do adore Sin City's aesthetics and dark, heavy, ugly, dirty climate it gives off. It's surprising how well HxH characters fit into this kind of noir, gloomy setting.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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